


And so it begins

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: After effects of violence, Falling In Love, Healing, Inception - Freeform, Inception Reverse Bang, M/M, Military, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Secrets, dreamshare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: This is a story of Arthur and Eames: how they met long ago, right at the beginning; how they invented dreamshare, how things went badly wrong, and what Eames did to try to fix them. It is the story Eames didn’t tell when he said to Cobb: “We tried ... it didn’t take.”





	1. 2010

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedrunkpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/gifts).



> There are two co-conspirators I must thank: somedrunkpirate, who drew the gorgeous, but disturbing art, and oceaxe, who was the best beta, and who shaped this story enormously. When I didn’t see where it was going, oceaxe did, and steered me right. Oceaxe is more like a co-creator. I will always be grateful for excited reading, close attention to detail, and wise suggestions.
> 
> somedrunkpirate's art tied in with an idea I’d been turning over for a while: the story of “We tried ... it didn't take.” So here it is, a story in which things go right, and then wrong, several times. But they go right again at the end.

“We tried ... It didn’t take.”

Such a bland explanation for such a painful memory.

***

Eames is quietly minding his own business at the table, small stakes, just something to pass the time, nothing he can’t afford to lose, when that prick Dominic Cobb sidles up next to him with his sarcasm and his self-satisfaction. As if he has any call to be superior after everything he’s been involved in and accused of. Everyone’s heard the talk, which he has done nothing to quiet by his insane reaction, running, ducking and diving all over the world, swirls of rumour surrounding his every move. Eames has tried not to pay too much attention to any of it, but Arthur’s still with Cobb, after everything, so he can’t ignore it entirely.

He lets the man buy him a drink and listens to his pitch. _Inception_. 

“It’s perfectly possible. Just bloody difficult.” That’s the understatement of the year right there. But bloody hell, the chance to try again, that’s a pretty potent lure. Even without Arthur.

Arthur, whom he’d last seen … but no, he won’t go there.

“You still working with that stick in the mud?” Cobb is too easy to deflect.

“He’s good at what he does.” If only Cobb knew even the half of what Arthur is good at. 

“Oh, he’s the best. No imagination though.” And Cobb of course readily agrees with that, the disloyal bastard.

“Not like you.” Eames probably has too much imagination for his own good. It certainly hasn’t given him much other than heartache lately. So of course he’s going to take Cobb up on his offer. Get back in the swing of things, out of this place. Which he likes well enough for its languid charms, its ask-no-questions anonymity. The coffee’s good, the food’s okay, the gambling dens passable, but the lack of intellectual stimulation is starting to wear him down. There’s only so many times he can argue over the same old ground with Yusuf, when he even deigns to leave his laboratory.

“When you’ve lost your tail.” The tail is laughably obvious, that sort of just-arrived, can’t-quite-believe-his-eyes expat combined with a bit of second-generation muscle. He can wait it out, let Cobb go haring off all over. So he’s standing in the doorway, cool and collected, watching the passing crowds when Cobb pitches up again, dishevelled and out of breath, with a tall elegant-as-fuck Japanese guy, who looks Eames up and down, while Eames is doing the same thing, more subtly.

And so into Yusuf’s weird little shop of horrors. It amuses Eames, all those bottles of coloured water on display to lure the locals, the real stuff hidden away, the cats prowling carefully about. And it’s interesting watching Cobb, not sure what to make of Yusuf, with his carefully cultivated look of old-school hippy and his casually cultivated accent. You can practically see Cobb being entirely at a loss for how to read him. Not much gets by Saito, though. It’s clear he’s a worldly guy. His suit says as much. And his languid eyes. Then he throws Eames for a bit of a loop with his insistence that he’ll be along to make sure they don’t fuck it up. That Cobb doesn’t fuck it up.

And so it begins.


	2. 2000

He looks at the letter again as the train rolls through countryside. He’s to report to an office in Cambridge, of all places (“Out of uniform”). The letter included a train ticket to get him there, but no explanation. Typical bloody Army, never tell you ahead of time why you have to do something. 

After basic training, he had assumed he’d get sent off to the desert to risk his life in the dust, win a few hearts and minds in a few dirty villages, try not to get blown up or shot in the process. After all, he had aced training, loved the feeling of getting fitter and leaner, being able to throw himself down in the mud and hit a distant target. Hadn’t loved all the shouting, and the idiot boys he was forced to share barracks space with, banging the doors and shouting and snapping towels in the showers, making it too loud to think, a lot of the time. But thinking hadn’t been encouraged anyway, he had enough reports for insubordination to prove that. 

So he has no idea what he’s being sent to, only that it’s not combat. Part of him is relieved, less danger of dying, but part of him dreads being stuck in an office pushing papers around. The secrecy of the order is intriguing though.

The office is on the outskirts of the city, in the “science park”, gleaming glass and steel rather than dreaming spires, no students on buggered bicycles and no hordes of wondering tourists. Very severe. Very clean. Very quiet. Very un-Army.

He’s only a bit hungover after an evening spent arguing in a pub with a pretentious philosophy student he’d met on the train and a later evening spent fucking a rugby player he’d met on his way to the hotel. Only a bit hungover but feeling pretty pleased with himself for having bested them both.

He is directed to “the lab”, which turns out to be a conference room with desks arranged in a semicircle, pretending this is a democracy. Bunch of others already sitting there. As many women as men — looks of interest from three of the women and one of the men. 

He sits down at the remaining desk, leans back in the chair — and has his mind blown by three white-coated superiors.

Entering dreams, able to kill and be killed with no lasting harm, combat simulation better than any computer game ever written and they are to be the testers, the guinea pigs, the lab rats. If he’d been under any lingering illusions about his place in the scheme of things they are ended right then and there. 

But still. But still. Entering _dreams_. My god.

“This is still the military, but no ranks and no uniforms. And no names. No real names.” What the hell have they been signed up for? The chief white coat points at them each in turn: “Black, White, Brown, Grey, Blue, Purple, Olive, Yellow, Orange, Pink.” He gets Pink and the others all smirk at him, so he smiles his most winning smile. The white coats have been oh so careful, none of the colours match crudely to races. Pink might be a bit on the nose, though.

The white coats are Mustard, Green and Scarlet. “Yes, that’s Colonel Mustard to you lot. But no ranks.” No one can keep a straight face at that.

They’re led from the room, shown to their quarters, pretty spartan, in keeping with the gleaming glass and steel aesthetic of the place, but single rooms at least, and issued their no-uniform uniforms: black combat pants and t-shirts, white, black and grey. No pink, to his slight disappointment. Told to change and assemble back in the conference room at 15h00.

When they get back, the desks have been moved to one side and replaced with a ring of armchairs, looking less like a club than a chemo centre or something. On a table in the centre sits a large machine with a dial and lengths of coiled clear plastic tubing.

Scarlet, a severe-looking woman with a chignon and spike heels, explains: she will be the “dreamer”, and they will enter her dream, by means of a drug administered via the machine, a Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device or PASIV. He looks around the group and sees a mixture of bewildered nerves and baffled eagerness. No one voices any hesitation. Or rather, it is clear no one wants to be the first to express trepidation. 

“Hell yeah!” says Brown, a blond guy with the build of a rugby player. 

Scarlet just raises an eyebrow. “It’s … odd, at first. You may not all hack it. Not everyone takes to it. You’re not all expected to make it through the programme, you know.”

Same thing they always said, that “look to your left, look to your right, one of you will fail” bullshit. Brown does indeed look left and right and all round the circle with a smug grin. 

“So,” Scarlet continues. “The chemical, Somnacin, is administered via an IV. I trust none of you is squeamish about needles?” More bravado, more nervous glances. But that was the sort of thing they would have checked ahead of time, he is certain. “In time, you’ll insert our own. For now, medics will assist.” At that, two medics enter the room, latex gloves already in place.

“Hang on,” Brown says, “What about, you know, diseases?” 

“You’ve all been tested. In fact, weekly testing is mandatory, so get used to it. And no risky behaviour.” Her gaze sweeps round the circle, not lingering on any one person. He stares Brown down, and gets a conspiratorial glance from Olive, pretty much confirming his earlier look of interest.

The medics are good, only a slight pinch as the IV needle goes into the back of his hand.

“Right,” says Scarlet. “We’re going into my dream. There will be others there. They’re projections of my subconscious. Try not to draw attention to yourselves. You’ll see why.” And with that she leans over to press a big button on the machine.

———

They are standing in the middle of a wide empty square in a nondescript city. Bland mid-size office blocks. Quiet. Eerily empty, like a financial district on a holiday. As they look around, each trying not to seem too startled, a few strangers start to emerge from side streets, seemingly without purpose, wandering aimlessly, quietly.

He finds a bench to sit on, out of the way where he can watch. Black, one of the women who had looked at him with interest, comes over. “Mind if I sit?” He shifts and together they watch in fascinated silence. Brown is the first to ignore Scarlet’s instruction, walking up to one of the wandering people and asking the time. Innocent enough, but the woman frowns at him and shakes her head, hurrying away. Heads turn, mutters rise and Scarlet places a hand on Brown’s arm, shakes _her_ head. And so the eerie silence drifts on. The recruits walking slowly, the “projections” walking slowly. So far so dull. Until Orange obviously can’t restrain herself. She goes over to a guy leaning against a building smoking and tries to bum a cigarette. The guy seems friendly enough, but others become agitated, quickening their pace, turning to look over their shoulders at the interaction. And then it’s as if they start to realise that Brown and Orange aren’t the only intruders, start noticing the rest of them, mutters turn to raised voices and people start to crowd round them, even coming over to where he and Black are sitting.

———

Then he is opening his eyes in the conference room and they are all looking around frowning. And when he checks his watch only a minute or two have apparently passed.

“Right!” Scarlet says, standing up and pulling the IV out of her hand. “Now you’ve seen what’s possible. And understood, I hope” — looking at Brown and Orange — “why I told you to remain unobtrusive.”

“But what’s the point of just watching?”

“The point,” Mustard says, suddenly speaking up from the back of the room where they’d not noticed him, “is you disobeyed an order. This is still the military. As you are well aware.”

Brown looks round the circle in a patent attempt to gain sympathisers. Eames gives him a flat ‘don’t look at me, mate’ stare. He hasn’t always been the best at following orders, but this is too intriguing to fuck up. 

“Now,” says Mustard. “You’ve seen the technology at work. The fun’s over. Anyone going to wimp out already?” No one speaks up. “You will of course be aware that this is a highly … sensitive programme. Utter discretion is required. You will swear an oath to that effect.” He pauses. “And you may wonder why we didn’t administer the oath first. But really, who’s going to believe you anyway?”

There’s rueful laughter at that. “So just keep your traps shut, eh? Don’t go shooting your mouths off in pubs. When we give you leave.” He turns and leaves and the medics come in and take out the IV lines and they all troop out to their rooms. 

He lies on the bed staring up at the ceiling and thinks: “What the fuck are we doing here?” and “When can I do it again?” And he understands why he was chosen, with his degree in psychology, gained before he’d realised he’d be crap at treatment and thought fuck it all and joined the Army, desperate to _do_ something.

Why were the others chosen? Well, he’ll find all that out, and he falls asleep thinking about the look Olive had given him, half shy and half sly, from under dark brows.

And so it begins. 

***

The dreams. God, the dreams. Day after day of wandering around Scarlet’s anodyne cityscape, slowly discovering its secrets, learning how far they can push the projections before things get ugly. It is clear the brass don’t know exactly what they have on their hands. Equally clear that not all the lab rats grasp the possibilities. But soon enough those who do shake themselves out into a clique of inquiring minds: he and Black and Olive, who it turns out is American, precociously young and intense, dark eyes often resting broodingly on him as they discuss what they are learning, in one of their rooms late at night. American Andy. Sometimes he has to turn away from the scrutiny of those eyes, has to swallow to overcome the way his mouth goes dry under it.

It doesn’t take long, either, for the natural winnowing process to start, reducing their number as first Purple and then Brown wash out, when finally, after the early weeks of discovery, the real purpose of the dreams is brought into play. No more clean, boring financial district in Scarlet’s head, but an urban warfare hellscape in Mustard’s, all ruined buildings and broken pavements, burned-out vehicles and fallen power lines. And weapons. A bit of a shock to have an automatic rifle in his hands again. But firing it isn’t something you forget: the feel of the metal under your fingers, hot and slick, the way the trigger resists pressure until that moment it doesn’t, the brutal kick of it against your shoulder, the sharp explosion against your eardrums. But no bruises when you wake up, no lingering ringing in your ears.

Learning to shoot another human, even when you knew they weren’t real —that was something training didn’t really prepare you for, something you’d assumed you would only ever have to do when your own life was at stake. That’s the day Purple quits.

Everyone is quiet when they surface, eyes sliding past each other as they extract the IV needles, as practised now at finding a vein as any addict. And the next day they’re only nine, then eight as Brown’s bravado runs out and he too leaves, shamefaced. 

No amount of time playing shoot ’em up can prepare you for what it feels like, to watch another life end, just like that, in a spray of blood as red-real as your own oozing from the needle hole in your hand.

But even that doesn’t prepare them for what comes next.

The first time it happens is a shock, even though they were told, at the get-go, that dream-death isn’t real, and they’d learnt that dream-hurt doesn’t last. Even so, it is an awful, gut-churning, ghastly fucking shock. To see one of them take a bullet and die in agony. To wake up and see him sitting there, alive and unhurt but white as a sheet of paper. 

Worse, that it was Andy.

Later, after the official debrief, when they were told that it was about time one of them experienced it, and the side effect, that “dying” in a dream is a way to get out quickly and that they’d all get used to it soon enough, shooting and being shot, after that, late that evening, in Andy’s room, sitting at his desk as he sits on the bed, his back against the wall, looking down at his hands, then, then the full import hits home. They sit in silence for a long while. Not touching, never touching, even though he wants at least to reach out a friendly hand.

And afterwards he lies awake a long time in his room, staring into the dark, examining his reaction to seeing Andy shot. His visceral reaction — deeper, colder than it would have been if it had been any of the others, he is certain.

The day they’re told to try it on each other is the day Yellow calls it quits, unable to pull the trigger on White. Black, it turns out, has no trouble pulling the trigger on him. “Pain is in the mind,” they’ve been told, a properly aimed shot would really only hurt for a split second because you expected it to and then you’d be awake back in your chair in the lab. And yes, that is true, but Christ, it does fucking hurt for that split second, although the second before was far worse and he isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to that. Then, as soon as they’ve drawn breath up top they are sent back down to do it all over the other way round and that isn’t any easier. And it’s terrible to see, out of the corner of his eye as he raises his weapon, Andy doing the same, his dark eyes blank.

All the time, as they practise and push the edges of what is possible, he keeps thinking about what else the dreams could be used for. Something better, something positive. Scarlet is no help, hasn’t really considered, but he and Black and Andy bat it back and forth late at night when the quiet is profound and the light is low. Alcohol is banned, no one knows what its effect would be on the Somnacin and no one wants to find out if it will intensify the headaches that the chemical causes for most people. Headaches you learn to ignore, most of the time, but are the reason for the quiet and the dim lighting of their quarters. So they argue it back and forth, quite sober. 

“You know,” Black says one night, sipping on a mug of herbal tea, “you know how real dreams sometimes tell you the answer to something you’ve been worrying at? I wonder if …?”

“Yeah,” Andy agrees, “when you wake up certain of something you didn’t know the night before.” His brows draw together in a frown that puts a deep crease there, one that begs to be smoothed away. “Didn’t realise, the night before.”

“But how do we test that?” Black asks (he can’t get used to calling her Jane, Black suits her better). “How can we pose a dilemma we truly don’t already know the answer to? I mean, it’s not knowledge I’m talking about, but self-knowledge, and no offence, but I’m not sure I know either of you guys well enough to go there yet.” She laughs, but they understand what she means. It is one thing debating ideas, but none of them is ready to lay their psyche bare to new acquaintances for the sake of science, no matter how curious they are.

He asks Green when one of them will get the chance to be the dreamer, to create the space. Green hesitates before Mustard steps in smoothly: “You don’t need to go there, my head is dangerous enough without any of you lot subjecting us to your adolescent angst.” Despite the fact that none of them is any sort of adolescent.

But they can’t let the idea go, of course. How does the dreamer create the world and can they learn to do it without the guidance of the white coats? Could they manage to get time alone with the PASIV? Get their hands on Somnacin without being found out and thrown out? _Would_ they get thrown out of the programme, with three others already gone? It takes weeks of debate, winding each other up, until Black says one night: “Hell, if you two guys are such wimps, I’ll have to do it myself,” and that jolts him and Andy into agreement that they will try it for themselves and bugger the consequences. It’s embarrassing really, how easy it is for her to appeal to their male pride.

So they lift a key to the lab and take to slipping in there after hours to experiment. The first time, they draw straws for who will be the dreamer.

———

Andy’s dream is a surreal, formless space, a sort of bright mist with no definition. But the feeling of being inside the mind of someone he actually cares about is wonderful and unsettling, and almost immediately they understand the real power of dreams, the thing they’ve been reaching for.

Hidden feelings and thoughts can be plucked from an unguarded dreaming mind. 

———

“Ugh,” Black says, “I’m not doing that again until we know how to create a dream space that doesn’t feel so … raw. Sorry, Andy.” She slams the door on her way out.

Andy looks truly shaken. To have _that_ laid bare for them to see. 

And he feels like a thief, a violator. “I feel the same, okay?” he tells Andy, “But we don’t have to _do_ anything.”

He wants to _do something_ , of course he does, has since day one, when Andy looked at him, complicit. But Andy doesn’t meet his eyes, just says: “No!” and walks out, leaving him to clean the PASIV, roll up the tubing, set the lab to rights, alone with the knowledge of what they both feel.

It is weeks before they try again, and they only do after they have prised out of Scarlet how to create a specific space. He volunteers, because Andy clearly will not. The place he creates is part of his old school, and the secret he deliberately hides is something he doesn’t mind the others knowing, in fact wants Andy to see — a schoolboy crush he had on the captain of the cricket team. The smells of the change room in the sports pavilion: dirty socks and sweat, linseed oil, the musty aroma of crumbling batting pads, bring it back to him so vividly he feels 15 again. Through the window he can see the team out on the pitch, hear the sound of a well-struck ball, and the thrill of watching his idol comes back strongly. And in a locker, there is a piece of notebook paper with his secret written on it.

Afterwards, Black raises an eyebrow. “I can see why you felt like that.” Andy doesn’t say anything while she is still in the room, but once she leaves, he says: “Thanks. I remember that feeling too,” keeping his head down as they both pack the PASIV away, their hands almost, but not quite, touching.

Now they can’t stay away from the lab, sneaking in most evenings. It is Andy who realises the value of creating a maze, blind alleys the dreamer knows about but the others do not, places to lose them in, ways to escape. 

And all the while, the official training carries on: shooting and dying. It gets less shocking to kill, which is in itself shocking; never less shocking to die, unfortunately. One day he can’t restrain himself. “Isn’t there more it could be used for?” he asks Mustard. “Something more subtle?” 

Mustard smirks. “Subtle? Why don’t you tell me?”

Of course their experimenting has not gone unnoticed. The surveillance cameras are well-disguised and they chose not to think about them, but obviously they have been observed. They didn’t seriously think their use of the Somnacin would be unremarked, they just didn’t care.

“We knew it wouldn’t be long before some of you cottoned on and started to push the boundaries. What _have_ you discovered?”

He looks across at Andy and Black and says: “Secrets. People hide secrets in dreams. Other dreamers can find them.”

“Mazes,” Andy says, “Mazes make it harder. And safer.”

Mustard’s eyes widen slightly, just enough to telegraph that they _have_ broken new ground. The rest of the unit look rather blank.

After the others have been dismissed, the three of them are kept back. “Thank you,” Mustard says, “You did what you were brought here to do. Did you never wonder why you, all of you, with discipline reports as long as your arms, were chosen for this confidential project?”

He has wondered.

The next day, they realise how stupid they’ve been.

The next day, they no longer have to shoot and die. The next day, interrogation begins.

And the idea is not to avoid the use of pain, just to use it where there’d be no signs afterwards. Torture without consequences. Without consequences other than the dirty feeling it leaves. For him and Andy at least, he is sure. He isn’t so certain some of the others care.

At first, it is just projections they are supposed to break, not “real” people, but projections can, and do, scream. And bleed. And twitch. That is hard enough, but they are determined to learn all they can, too deeply hooked by the possibilities they can see to quit now. But Orange cracks, the day it all gets horribly real, just as shooting each other followed shooting projections. The day they are paired off at random (he gets White), told to think of some memory they will try to guard, while the other attempts to prise it free. Orange leaves the room.

The white coats are _still_ using the PASIV as a blunt instrument, haven’t understood what the three of them have, that dreamers can exploit the natural tendency of people to hide their secrets and that all you need is a bit of ingenuity to find the hiding place and no one needs to get hurt. Or inflict pain. He glances at Andy and Black to see if they are thinking what he is, that they can do this the way the brass want, or they could try their own way and possibly change the course of dreamshare. It does depend on persuading their partners to let them try extracting first. He is pretty certain of his own persuasiveness, his ability to turn on the charm, less sure of Andy’s, with his slightly prickly seriousness. 

——— 

The dreamspace in Mustard’s mind is a series of blank cubicles, each with just two chairs and a tray of instruments.

“The fuck?” White says, expressing what they both feel.

So he seizes his moment. “If you could hide it, I’d find it. And no one needs to get hurt.” White smirks a bit at the clichéd line.

“Hide it where, in this blank box? There’s nowhere _to_ hide anything.”

“Just try.” It’s hard to give White the privacy he needs to attempt to hide anything, and it’s no challenge to find his secret — peeing his pants at kindergarten — under the tray of hideous instruments.

“We’d better try it their way now,” he says, mentally bracing for the pain and wondering what implement White will select. “You can try get mine out of me then.” 

“Fuck no!” White says. “Just tell me.”

So he tells him about accidentally killing his grandmother’s pet canary when he was six and and then they wait out the timer together in tense silence, certain they are going to be thrown out of the programme.

———

When they wake in the lab, everyone looks furtively round the circle to try and see who has gone through with it and who is shaken by being on the receiving end of pain. 

Blue has a hard look in her eye, and next to her Andy looks almost broken. Black and Grey don’t meet anyone’s gaze.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” Mustard says, furious. “What the fuck were you all playing at? War is not a children’s game, so man up, and get dirty.”

It is easy to see how dirty Andy feels, how violated, with Blue smirking next to him, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“Fuck this!” He storms from the lab, more certain than ever he’ll be chucked out, not caring anymore. He waits in his room, lying staring at the ceiling, expecting to be called in by Mustard at any moment, listening to the sounds of the others coming back to their quarters, no talking, just doors closing as everyone retreats.

He lies there, staring till the ceiling blurs, listening to the profound silence, wondering if he should go to Andy, until he finally falls into a doze.

He is awakened by a tap at his door, too hesitant to be a summons from Mustard. He gets up, stiff and disoriented, and opens the door, blinking at the light in the corridor. Andy pushes past him wordlessly and stands in the middle of the small space, head down, shoulders rigid. He reaches out and places a hand on his back, but Andy shakes him off.

“Don’t.”

“Okay.” And they continue to stand in silence until Andy steps over to the bed and flops down, turning to the wall and curling up on himself. He sits at the desk and keeps his eyes on the curve of shoulder to hip, thigh to knee to bare feet, for what seems an hour, until Andy turns on his back and says tonelessly, “I can’t do it.”

He wants so badly to sit next to him, or lie down and hold him, but he waits. 

“What’s the point? What’s the point of it, if they only want to use it to hurt? Force us to give up our … selves …”

“I couldn’t do it either. I won’t.”

“I think they chose us deliberately. People with secrets, and people with no … conscience.” Andy cuts his eyes over. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. I never did tell, but they knew, I guess.”

“They don’t care, over here.”

“Oh.” And Andy snorts a mirthless laugh. “The joke’s on me, I guess.” He turns over and reaches out. Finally. Their hands meet across the space, and Andy tugs and he goes over and Andy shifts back on the bed and he lies down next to him, but still their bodies don’t touch.

In the morning they quit. Walk away. 

From everything. From each other.

And then, he becomes Eames.


	3. 2003

He tried to shake it off, move on, do something different, but what do you do when you’re cast adrift from the only home you’ve known for years? 

He couldn’t go back, not to the military, nor to try academia again, but what was there to go forward to? So he’d gone to lose himself in the biggest city he knew, and washed up in its seedier sections. There is no glamour in lying low and nameless, with no history as currency, when you have only personal charm to go on. But he did have personal charm and in time it bought him a place, of sorts.

He didn’t love the nightlife, but it was where his sort lived. He was skilled at games that relied on reading others and distracting their attention. If you were clever, you could buy yourself time for other things, and poker bought him time to read and observe and learn, all the things he hadn’t had time to learn before, had been too young to understand. About how people think, the lies they tell themselves, the selves they create to live inside. 

He never stopped thinking of dreams. The manufactured kind that had been so poorly used by the military. How much better they could have been, how much more useful than just a tool to teach soldiers how to kill with less compunction, how to wrench secrets — and not even real secrets, just the sort that governments and militaries wanted kept — out of others by force and violence without the scars ever showing. The more he thought about the ways people lie to themselves, the more he became certain dreams could be a way to help them see themselves more fully. He longed to try out his ideas, but he had walked away from the PASIV before unlocking its secrets, and there was no way back.

*** 

Until the day he strolls up to the nondescript door of the hidden-away club in the unmarked back street, a book under his arm, nothing much on his mind except how much he might walk away with at the end of the night, and sees a sort-of familiar figure against the wall opposite, a cap pulled low over his eyes, incongruous with the neat trenchcoat and the well-polished boots.

“Hi,” says the guy, looking up from under the cap’s peak. 

“Andy?” The shock, the wonderful shock, of seeing him again, when he never dared hope he would, leaves him light-headed. 

“It’s Arthur. Now. Eames?”

“Eames.”

“Like the chair?”

“Like the designer.”

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“But you found me, even with a new name.”

‘Arthur’ shrugs. “Took a while.” He hasn’t moved from his position against the wall on the other side of the alley, but it’s quiet here and they are speaking almost in undertones. “May I come in?”

“Depends. Can you play?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Then no.”

“When will you finish?”

“Four. AM.”

“Okay.” And he walks off down the alley.

He has a wretched night, his concentration shot to hell, and is only just recovering enough to break even when the session is over and he can leave. The alley is empty. He doesn’t know what he expected, that he’d be back waiting under his cap, just standing in the dark until Eames came out? He walks towards the all-night cafe where he gets breakfast and winds down after these sessions. As he steps up to the door, he sees the peaked cap through its fogged pane. ‘Arthur’ (he’s not used to the name yet. It took him a while to get used to Eames) looks up as Eames opens the door. His face is thinner than it was three years ago, his mouth too. Their eyes meet and Eames goes over, hardly hearing the night manager’s cheerful greeting. 

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been following you.”

“Following me? How long?”

“A couple of weeks. Off and on. You never noticed?”

“Fuck.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “I’m a bit disappointed.”

“Why the hell would I suspect that someone I last saw three years ago would turn up here? Stalking me.” 

“Fair point. Aren’t you going to sit down and have breakfast?”

Eames sits. What else can he do? It’s not like he isn’t intrigued as hell about what Arthur wants, after all.

“Okay.” 

As he sits, the manager calls over: “The usual?”

Arthur has a cup of their shitty coffee in front of him. He pulls a face. “What’s good?”

“Good?” Eames snorts. “It’s a caff, get a fry-up. And the tea’s better than the coffee.” He turns towards the counter. “Thanks, mate. Two please.”

He leans back, ready to hear why Arthur’s here, now. Desperate, in fact, although he tries not to show it. But Arthur looks past his shoulder and says nothing.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about, Arthur?” he says, finally. The name’s starting to grow on him. It suits this thinner, serious man.

“Not here,” says Arthur.

He shrugs. “Okay.” 

Eames pushes his empty plate away and pours his second cup of tea, “When will you tell me what this is about?”

“Soon,” says Arthur, setting his less empty plate aside. “Let’s walk.”

Eames pays and they go out into the pale pre-dawn street. Arthur falls into step beside him, belting his coat. They walk in silence to the corner, and Arthur turns it, in the direction they have to go to get to Eames’ place, eventually. The silence stretches. Eames doesn’t mind it, and it’s good to clear his head after the night he’s had, but he is very curious. “Are we going to my flat?” he says. “That’s fine, but it’ll be a bit of a hike.”

“I know,” says Arthur. Of course he does. They keep walking. The dawn brightens and the streets start to fill up and still they walk in silence. Arthur keeps his head down. Eames steals glances at him now and then. His ears stick out under his blue cap. Eames remembers that, how they stuck out from his brutally short Army haircut. But the coat is good quality, and so are the boots. He’s wearing a white shirt and a sweater. He looks good, adult. He looks as if he’s doing alright, Eames thinks, his hands in the pockets of his black jacket. He wonders what Arthur thinks of him, slipping into a back alley poker club, a regular at a down-at-heel caff. He doesn’t care, exactly, but he wonders.

Finally, an hour of walking brings them to a bus-stop where a bus that goes past his flat is just pulling up. “I’m knackered,” he says, and falls in line. Arthur narrows his eyes, but he stands at Eames’ shoulder. Eames pays for them both and heads for the upper deck. There’s a bunch of schoolkids up there, their loud adolescent voices bouncing off the windows. He sits down and Arthur sits next to him. Their shoulders bump as the bus pulls off with a slight jerk. Arthur still doesn’t say anything as they sway through the thickening traffic. Eames nudges him when it’s his stop and leans forward to press the request bell.

They get off and he turns down the side street where his flat is, unlocks the street door and leads the way up the steep narrow stairs to the second floor. The flat is up another flight after he unlocks his own front door. “Loo’s there,” he nods at the bathroom as Arthur emerges at the top of the stairs and looks about. “Want some proper coffee?” he says, going into the kitchen. 

“Um … no,” says Arthur, “I’ve been drinking coffee all night. Waiting for you.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, filling two glasses with water. “Now you have to tell me what this is all about.” He gestures down the hall towards the sitting room and hands the glasses to Arthur. “I need a pee first though.”

When he comes into the sitting room, Arthur is standing in front of his tall bookshelf looking at the titles. There are mostly art books in here, his other books are in his office at the back of the flat.

“This is nice,” says Arthur, looking around the room at the two sofas and the plants in the window bay. “You look settled.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” says Eames, sitting down. Arthur is still holding the water glasses. He comes across and hands one to Eames before sitting on the other sofa, where the ficus tree brushes his shoulder. He frowns and shifts away from its leaves.

“Now talk,” says Eames.

“I have a PASIV,” says Arthur.

Eames can hardly think of anything that would have startled him more.

“How? When?” he says. “Fuck, I wanted one for years.”

“I went back,” Arthur says simply.

“Back—?”

“Not back to the programme. Back to Cambridge. I kept out of sight. It was obvious the programme was collapsing. I mean, after we left, they were down to four.”

“Why didn’t they just bring in new people? They had a ready supply.”

“I guess they’d lost faith in it. They realised it wouldn’t work for training, that most people would find the dreams too demanding, too unsettling. We were specially picked, and most of us quit on them. What was the military going to do with it then? They got shut down. I was sniffing around. I followed Green to a pub one night, got him drunk—”

“You got Green drunk?” Eames can’t help himself, but this may be the most startling part of Arthur’s story. Or at least, the most startling part he can get a grip on.

“Fuck you, I wasn’t a kid,” says Arthur, but he’s smiling, sort of. “You just never had a chance to see me like that.”

“I suppose. Okay, go on,” says Eames, smiling a bit too. This is not at all the Andy he thought he knew, the half-broken kid he said goodbye to at the Cambridge railway station. No matter what he says now, that kid had been hanging by a thread.

“Yeah, it took me a while,” Arthur concedes. “I couldn’t go back to the States, my passport would have pinged them. So I went to Edinburgh for a bit.”

“Edinburgh? Why?”

“I’d always wanted to? Anyway, I was there a few months and then I thought, Fuck it, why should I just give up? You know? Why should they have it and not us?”

“And yet, it’s nearly three years later and you only came to look for me now.”

“Well, I didn’t know if you’d want to be found. You looked like you were shaking the dust off your feet pretty thoroughly.”

“So Green just gave you a PASIV?”

“No, of course not. It took quite a few nights in the pub, listening to him. He was pissed at Mustard, for wanting to use it in ways he didn’t approve of. For not listening to us. Green — his name was James Fanshawe, by the way —also wanted to explore the kinds of things we realised—”

“Was?”

“Yes. He … died. It had nothing to do with dreamshare. He had a heart attack two months ago while he was mowing his lawn.”

“All that boozing,” says Eames. 

Arthur narrows his eyes. “He was a good guy,” he says. “I miss him.”

‘Sorry,” says Eames. “Go on.”

“We spent two years … experimenting. God, the things you can do! It’s amazing. I can’t wait to show you. The places you can create. There’s nothing like it.” His eyes are blazing, it’s the most animated Eames has ever seen him, and he’s envious that Green or James Fanshawe or whoever he was got to experience that. Envious of Andy-Arthur — that he got to experience it.

“You can create whatever you can dream up.” He catches himself and smiles, face breaking into dimples. “The laws of physics don’t apply. If you want something, you can have it, you just have to imagine it.”

“We kind of knew that,” says Eames.

“Yes, but they never, _we_ never, imagined — you can bend the ground up over your head …” His voice trails off. Eames lets the silence spin out, waiting for Arthur to pick up again.

“He seemed most interested in that side. But that idea we had, that people will hide stuff and you can find it, we tried that as well. You just have to create somewhere for it to be hidden. Like a safe. Or a jewel box. Or a diary. Something like that.” He stops again, and again Eames waits. After a long minute during which Arthur looks down at his hands, still holding the water glass, he says: “Those experiments were … less fun.” He looks up at Eames. 

Eames nods. “I can imagine.”

“James was a good guy. But he was a bit old school.”

“Was it just the two of you all that time?”

Arthur takes a long gulp of water. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Yes. He was paranoid, refused to consider letting anyone else in on it.”

“Were you still in Cambridge?” 

“No. God no! We left Cambridge the day he took the PASIV. Or rather, he left, I followed a week later. I was sure he was just going to run out on me, but he sent a message about where he was.”

“So, he quit the Army, and you ran away with him to do dream experiments for two years? What did you live on?”

“Oh, he wasn’t Army. He was a scientist.”

“What _did_ you live on?”

“Would you believe, he had a patent on some popular drug or other. He was loaded.”

Eames can’t help the way his eyebrows rise. “Pretty lucky.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, smothering a yawn. The sun’s shining outside the big window behind the plants, the sky a pale blue criss-crossed with contrails from the planes taking off at Heathrow. Eames is usually asleep by now after a night at the table, once he’s come down from the rush of winning, which he still gets, even though it’s a job, and from the concentration it takes to win just enough that he doesn’t get a reputation. He wants to hear more. He wants to hear it all, but they’re too tired now.

“I’m knackered,” he says. “You too, obviously.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. It’s as if his brain is shutting down and he can’t form better words. And perhaps the strain of finding Eames and telling his story has caught up with him. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to shower and go to bed,” says Eames. “Do you want …?” He lets the unspoken offer “to stay here?” trail off. 

“I better go then,” says Arthur, standing up. But he sways on his feet. “I’ll just go …” He gestures at the sitting room door.

“Stay,” says Eames. “Just stay. Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Neither of his sofas is really a place to sleep. Arthur looks at them and frowns. “No, I—” His words are swallowed by another yawn. “I won’t take up the whole bed,” he says, conceding.

“You sure?”

“It’s your bed, Eames.”

Arthur walks down the hall to the bathroom. When he comes back, Eames is in the bedroom. “Okay?” says Eames.

“Yeah. Go,” says Arthur. 

Eames grabs a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt from the chest of drawers and goes and stands under the hot water trying to fit this new reality into some kind of order. Andy, grown up and back in his life — and in his bed. And experienced in a way Eames is not. Will he ever catch up?

He brushes his teeth, pulls on the clothes and goes back to the bedroom. Arthur is already asleep, lying on top of the covers, still fully dressed apart from his shoes. His shoulders form a sharp line. Eames gets under the duvet as best he can and lies listening to Arthur’s even breathing.

***

When he wakes, both he and Arthur have turned over and are face to face. Arthur is still asleep, his lashes dark fans, his mouth slack, open a little, his hair — longer than before, of course — falling onto his forehead. Eames lies still, almost holds his breath until Arthur opens his eyes. At first, he just looks at Eames, then he turns on his back, rubs the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Hello,” says Eames.

“How long have we …?”

Eames glances at the clock by the bed. “About six hours.”

“Oh,” says Arthur. “I guess I should go.”

“But you haven’t told me the rest.”

Arthur sighs. “Yes. Okay.”

“Where are you staying? What are you living on?”

“Hotel. James had quite a bit of cash lying around.”

Eames doesn’t know what to say about that. Arthur isn’t Andy, at all. He has hard edges. Well, Eames isn’t who he was either.

“You haven’t told me anything about what you’ve been doing,” says Arthur, cutting his eyes over to Eames.

“I thought you knew, from all your stalking.”

Eames sits up and turns his back on Arthur. Lying here talking like this feels too intimate, and not intimate at all, with Arthur fully clothed and stiff.

“I’m going to make coffee. You want any?”

“Sure,” says Arthur, sitting up himself and pushing his hair off his face. It had been slicked back, but it’s come loose. It makes him look younger than he looked last night.

“And then you can keep telling me your story. And tell me why you came to find me now.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, his shoulders are slumped as he sits on the bed. 

It suddenly occurs to Eames that Arthur has only recently lost a close friend. At the very least someone he’s spent an awful lot of time with for two years.

“Are you okay, Arthur? After Green, James …?”

“I’m just tired from stalking you,” says Arthur, “you keep terrible hours.” He snorts a half-laugh. 

Eames doubts that’s the truth, but he knows he’s unlikely to get more out of him now. He gets up and goes to make coffee, leaving Arthur still sitting slump-shouldered.

Arthur comes into the kitchen in his socks and leans against the counter while Eames makes coffee. He gets out a packet of biscuits. It’s lunchtime, but he doesn’t have much in the house. He wasn’t expecting a visitor.

Eames hands Arthur his coffee and leads the way back to the sitting room, takes a couple of biscuits and puts the packet on the coffee table. Arthur doesn’t take one, but sits down cradling his coffee mug in both hands.

“We got to how he was loaded. Did you live with him?” Eames hopes he doesn’t sound too nosy and jealous, because he does feel jealous, stupidly enough.

“For a while. I moved out to a tiny flat. He paid the rent. I was a kept man.” He gives another of his short, mirthless laughs. “I have no idea how he managed to keep cashing the cheques without raising suspicion. I guess the military lost interest.”

“Doesn’t seem likely, does it?” says Eames. “Maybe they were just waiting for you two to do their research for them at no cost and no risk.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” 

Eames doesn’t know if Arthur is being completely candid and he could hardly blame him if he wasn’t. “Hmm. So you taught yourselves how to build fantastical dream worlds. You did the hiding secrets thing. What were you going to use it for?”

“That was the weird thing. He didn’t seem interested in a use. He just loved this machine he’d built. He kept tweaking. He built a new one. Smaller. Really portable.”

“That’s the one you have?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Eames. I can’t tell you that yet. I hardly know you.”

“You know me better than I know you. I didn’t even know you were still in this country. I didn’t even know you were still alive. You’ve been following me. How did you even find me?”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t spend all my time dreaming. I spent some of it getting really good at research.”

“Huh.” Eames doesn’t know what to say to that. He was careful at first to cover his tracks, but then when he made himself a new identity he allowed himself to live in the real world again. Leaving the inevitable trail. Still, he can’t help being impressed that Arthur managed to join the dots from who he was back then to who he has become.

Arthur has a small private smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m good,” he says. “I’m fucking good.”

He has learnt confidence along with dream architecture and hacking. Of course he has. He was always good. Now he’s clever _and_ experienced and it is an attractive combination.

“It’s not like you’ve been sitting around doing nothing yourself,” says Arthur. 

“Well, yes.”

“You could have a PhD by now.”

“And yet, here I am. A card shark with too many books.”

Arthur looks around the room, which is big and light. “A pretty successful card shark.”

The flat is on the high street and the windows rattle every time a bus rumbles past. “I’m doing okay,” says Eames.

Arthur doesn’t respond and they sit in silence, listening to the traffic. At last, Arthur looks up. He drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’ve got to go now,” he says. “I’ll ring you.” Eames is about to ask how he knows the number but Arthur just raises an eyebrow as he stands up.

“I’ll walk you to the bus-stop,” says Eames, standing too. “I’ll get dressed.”

“No,” says Arthur, “just tell me where it is.” He’s evidently had enough of Eames, so he lets him go, down the stairs. Arthur looks up from the bottom of the flight, but he doesn’t smile.

It’s hard to settle to anything in the wake of Arthur. Eames shaves and gets dressed and goes out for groceries. The sunshine’s pleasant on his face, and the usual weekday crowds of young mothers and old men and the jobless swirl into a backdrop to his thoughts. Of course Arthur knows his number, of course he doesn’t know Arthur’s and his skills don’t lie in that direction so he’ll just have to wait.

A PASIV, though. He has longed to have access to the world of manipulated dreams again, longed to ask himself the questions he is sure can’t be asked anywhere else, to test theories that can’t be tested anywhere else. He can wait for Arthur. 

In his study, surrounded by the books he has read as he expanded his understanding of the human mind, the human psyche, he feels reassured that he will have something to contribute, even though Arthur has moved ahead, so far ahead of him in two years while he gambled and read, and Arthur dreamed and practised. Together they will find something the PASIV is perfect for.

Together. Not like that, probably, even though Arthur-Andy has shown flashes of interest. 

Eames hasn’t been a monk these two years, but there’s been no one who intrigued him for longer than a few months, and Eames needs to be interested in the mind as much as in the body. It’s always been like that. Damned inconvenient. Inconvenient too that Arthur’s mind has always fascinated him. Now even more than before, so polished and sharp has it become. Even tired from waiting up all night and still sad from his recent loss, Arthur glittered with intelligence. 

***

He doesn’t have a game lined up in the next week, so he stays close to home, reading some new research, going for walks and people watching, which isn’t something he does idly. It makes winning the right amount easier, and he has been mulling over an idea, an idea he needs a PASIV to try. And now he has access to one. Or he soon will have. He’s not worried Arthur won’t let him use it. Why else would he have sought Eames out, if not to dream with him?

The door buzzer startles him as he is making tea in the afternoon three days after Arthur found him. He never gets visitors. “Yes?” he says into the receiver.

“Hello Eames,” says Arthur. “Let me in, there’s rain dripping down my collar.”

He presses the button to unlock the street door and goes down to open his front door. Arthur is carrying a large aluminium case, the sort photographers use. Rain has soaked the shoulders of his trenchcoat and is dripping off the peak of his incongruous blue cap. “Hello, Eames,” he says again. 

Eames reaches for the case and Arthur hands it over. It is heavy. “This it?” he says.

“Yeah. I’m soaked,” says Arthur. “I better take my shoes off.” He bends down and unlaces his boots and climbs the flat stairs holding them in his hand. “Fuck! It wasn’t raining when I left.”

There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t be trite, so Eames doesn’t reply. He puts the case down in the hallway.

“I’m making tea. Want some? Coffee?”

“Coffee please. If it’s not too much trouble?”

“Kettle’s boiled already,” he says, getting a coffee pot down. “Why didn’t you ring?”

Arthur shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d be out.”

It’s unsettling that Arthur knows him so well from a few weeks’ stalking, but he lets it go and waits for the coffee to brew.

He pours his tea and Arthur’s coffee and hands him the mug. Instead of walking down the hall to the sitting room, Arthur goes the other way, to Eames’ study. He puts his coffee down on the desk and looks at the bookshelves.

“You’ve been busy,” he says.

“Yes. Not just a card shark.”

“Of course,” says Arthur. “I never said that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Arthur picks up his coffee and takes a sip, still looking at the shelves.

“Are you going to let me see it?” says Eames.

“Of course. I don’t just tote it round for no reason.”

“Well then …” But Arthur seems in no hurry, contentedly drinking coffee and paging through the academic journal Eames left lying on the desk. Eames drinks tea, trying not to seem too eager. Not to seem as eager as he is.

“Okay,” says Arthur, draining his mug, “I’ll show you now.”

Eames picks up the case on his way to the sitting room. He sets it down on the coffee table. He doesn’t open it. Arthur comes to sit next to him on the sofa. Leans forward and unsnaps the lid. Eames feels a bubble of excitement in his chest. Arthur opens the case. The PASIV inside looks much the same as the one in Cambridge, on a more compact scale. Next to it in the case is space for a row of vials.

“You never said how you got supplies of Somnacin,” Eames says.

“James invented the formula. It’s really all about the drug, not the machine.”

“Talented guy,” says Eames, surprised by the spike of envy he feels.

“He was,” says Arthur in a tone that doesn’t invite him to say more. “So,” he says, “Do you want to try it?”

“Bloody hell, Arthur, of course I want to try it!”

Arthur looks at him sidelong and smiles, just the corner of his mouth and his eyes. “Of course,” he says.

He pulls out two rolled lines and reaches for Eames’ hand. His hand is warm and dry and a bit rough. “Let me put the cannula in for you. You’re out of practice,” he says. There’s just a tiny prick as he inserts the needle.

“You’re good at this,” says Eames, and Arthur smiles again. Eames settles back and watches Arthur insert his own line. He turns the timer dial to five minutes.

“I’ve got so much to show you,” he says, pressing the button.

———

They’re standing in a square surrounded by buildings. Not the nondescript buildings he remembers from Scarlet’s dreams, these are the elegant classical buildings of an Italian city. The sun is shining and a breeze carries a warm scent of orange blossom and a tang of sea air. Seagulls fly overhead uttering their raucous calls. He turns to look at Arthur, who is wearing linen trousers and a white shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Eames is wearing similar clothes. His shirt is pale blue.

“Arthur,” he says, “this is … I never guessed …” 

Arthur grins at him, dimples framing his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “It is, isn’t it? Would you like to go for a walk?” He crosses the square and heads up a narrow street. Looking up, Eames sees iron balconies with planters trailing geraniums: red, white, pink. 

“Arthur, this is beautiful!”

“You can build anything you like,” says Arthur, “So I built somewhere that made me happy.”

He sounds so wistful. “Is this somewhere you’ve been?”

“Once. The summer before I joined. I went to Italy. It’s nice to remember it.”

They walk past a market stall piled high with fruit: figs, lemons, melons, peaches. Arthur picks up a dark purple fig and hands it to him. It is warm and fragrant and reminds him forcefully of summer holidays in France. He bites into and it tastes exactly as it should. It’s the first time Arthur has given him anything.

They come to another square, with tables shaded by large plane trees and in one corner, a cafe with a red and white striped awning. Arthur sits down. “Have a drink?” he says. A waiter approaches and Arthur speaks to him in Italian. Seeing Eames’ astonishment, he says: “Oh yes, if you can imagine it, you can do it. I don’t really know Italian, just a few tourist phrases, but …” He shrugs. The waiter returns with two glasses on a battered metal tray. “I hope you like Campari soda,” says Arthur, picking up a glass and raising it. Eames picks up the other one. “Cheers,” he says. The drink is herbal and faintly bitter. Arthur turns to look at the far edge of the square and Eames realises that the buildings there are rising up, as if the ground is buckling.

“Arthur!” 

Arthur laughs, not one of his cynical laughs, but actual delight. “You can make a dream do anything,” he says, and the ground smooths out again. “Finish your drink, there’s something else I want to show you.”

They walk on across the square, to a sloping alley where the pavement is shallow stone steps, and they walk up and up. The steps turn a corner and continue up and still up, around another corner and still upwards, round a third corner, still up and up. And then they’re back in the square where they started, without ever going down. “Escher,” says Arthur, grinning at the way Eames is staring. “Physics doesn’t apply.” Eames laughs aloud.

———

Eames opens his eyes and Arthur is smiling at him from the other end of his sofa.

“Fuck! That was amazing,” he says.

“I’m glad you liked it,” says Arthur.

“Liked it? I bloody loved it!”

Arthur’s smile gets wider and more dimpled. “I love it too. I go there when I’m feeling down.”

“It’s so beautiful. How did you …?”

“I just keep adding bits as I remember them, or think of new things I want to try, like the Escher steps.”

“That part was fantastic.”

Arthur smiles sidelong at him again. He’s never seen him smile so much. It’s like another gift.

“I wanted to see if you could build something lovely. Not like in the programme, only bland places. Or frightening ones.”

Eames has spent these two years thinking of how the technology could be used for something positive, and Arthur has shown him one way that might be done. He has other ideas, but he can wait for another time to try them out. No need to rush Arthur, who is concentrating on rolling up the PASIV lines. He slips the cannula needles into a sharps container, his fingers dexterous and sure. Eames remembers how warm they felt on his wrist. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to Arthur.

“Would you like to get dinner?” he asks.

“Sure,” says Arthur. “It’s only the afternoon though.”

Eames looks out of the window and of course Arthur’s right, he is just confused because of their leisurely stroll and late afternoon drink in the dream.

“I forgot how time is different in dreams.”

“And I forgot how long it is since you did this.” Arthur smiles at him yet again. “Do you cook?” he asks.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“We could make dinner here. To use up the time until dinner. It’s been a while since I had dinner at home,” says Arthur. “Since James.”

So Eames looks in his fridge and the cupboards and they decide to make mushroom risotto — chopping, stirring, time to talk. They chop at opposite counters, back to back, in silence at first. It isn’t uncomfortable. 

Then Arthur says: “How long have you lived here?”

Eames bites back his urge to say: Don’t you know, from your stalking? And says instead: “About a year and a half.”

“Where were you before?”

“I crashed on a mate’s sofa for a month. Then in a crappy bedsit. All I could afford. Then I could afford rent, but it took a while to find somewhere I liked.”

“It’s a good place,” says Arthur. 

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Do you really make enough, playing?” Arthur has finished slicing mushrooms, he reaches past Eames for the parsley, brushing his arm.

Eames keeps his head down over the onions he’s dicing, his eyes blurring a bit.

“I do,” he says. “I’m good at reading people. They aren’t good at reading me. I win more than they do.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Leaves me free to do other things.”

“Like studying without studying.”

“Yeah, well, I could hardly go to university again, not really existing.”

“You’d be surprised what you can create online with a bit of ingenuity,” says Arthur. 

“I suppose. If my talents lay that way.”

“Mine do,” says Arthur. He’s not boasting, simply stating a fact.

“I’m alright,” says Eames. He feels a little prickly at the possibly not even real suggestion that Arthur could help him get his life on a more normal footing.

“Yeah. Of course,” says Arthur, “I wasn’t suggesting …” 

They lapse back into silence, until Eames says: “So do you have a whole new identity? Can you travel?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go back to the States then?”

“I wanted to see you.” Arthur isn’t looking at him as he says this; he’s concentrating on pushing the chopped parsley into a neat heap.

Eames has turned to look at him. “More than your family?”

“Yes.” Arthur turns too. “Yes, Ed—Eames.” He has stumbled over the named that used to be Eames’.

“Oh.” Eames isn’t sure what to think. He blinks to clear the moisture from his eyes, from the onions. Then he leaves the room, brushing past Arthur, to go to the bathroom and dash water over his face. He takes a breath as he looks in the mirror.

He hasn’t closed the door, and Arthur comes to the doorway. “Eames?” he says.

“I’m alright,” says Eames, water dripping off his chin. “Onions.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, stepping back, perhaps allowing him a little fiction. 

Eames dries his face. “Let’s have a glass of wine while we stir,” he says.

He gets a bottle out of the fridge and pours for them both. The kitchen soon fills with the warm aroma of cooking.

Arthur leans against the counter opposite, sipping his wine. “Why Eames?” he asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Why did you choose that name? Not that it doesn’t suit you!”

“I like the designs. Why Arthur?”

“I like it better.”

“It suits you. Sounds competent.”

They are silent again while the food cooks. It is a comfortable silence.

“Do you still have your flat in …?” says Eames.

“No. James paid the rent, and after he died his accounts were frozen.”

“So you’re homeless?”

“I guess so. The hotel is fine.”

“Will you go back to the States?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “On whether an idea I have works out.” He looks up. “It depends on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“This idea has to do with dreams? With what you discovered?”

“Yes, what we surmised, and I tested. As well as I could. James was weird about it. I think what the military tried to do with it scared him. I tried to persuade him there were better uses for it, but he wasn’t ready to hear. And then he was gone.”

Arthur has come to stand next to Eames. “And I can see I was right. About you. You _are_ the right person to try out what I discovered.”

“I’m flattered you think so.” Eames adds the parsley to the rice. “Can we use the PASIV again tonight? Do you have enough Somnacin?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Eames serves the food. They eat at the table in the sitting room.

“It’s nice here,” says Arthur. “Room service gets pretty boring.”

“I can imagine. What have you been doing all this time? Aside from stalking me?”

Arthur blushes slightly. “I’ve been looking for a chemist,” he says. “Did you notice any difference? In the quality of the dream?”

Now he thinks about it, trying to remember what it felt like two years ago, he can. “No headache,” he says. “No headache afterwards. And the dream … had background noises. I could hear the seagulls. And it smelt good.”

Arthur smiles. “I’m glad you liked that. Working out how to refine it so it didn’t leave those awful headaches took James months. And understanding how to add more texture to the dream took me months.”

“I really enjoyed your dream, Arthur. It felt very real. Will you show me how it’s done?”

“You know how it’s done. You could already do it, without even been taught. That first dream of yours, all those smells.” He wrinkles his nose.

“The cricket change room? I suppose. But that was memory, and you know how that works.”

“Well, mine’s memory too.”

“And invention, surely? That wasn’t any actual place. And it was big. I could smell things and hear sounds that weren’t relevant; that were just extra touches.”

“Well, sure,” says Arthur, “I added all sorts of places together. And I didn’t know any of those Italian towns that well. I just visited years ago, so I suppose it was a lot of invention.”

“How did you think of the steps thing?”

“Once I discovered you could bend the ground, it seemed like a possible next step. I thought it could be fun. And if you wanted to make a trap …”

“Mmmm,” says Eames, “Lead someone in there and they’d keep going round endlessly. Will you show me another dream?”

“Of course. Now?”

“No bad Somnacin effects with the wine?”

“No, thank god.” 

As Arthur unrolls the lines and inserts fresh needles, Eames suddenly remembers how strict they were in the programme about blood tests. He knows he’s clean, but he says: “Aren’t you concerned about blood tests?”

“Should I be?” says Arthur, concentrating on what he’s doing.

“No. Should _I_ be?”

“Eames, do you think I would expose you to that risk?”

“No. But you took a risk, with me.”

Arthur turns to him, eyebrow raised. “I trust you.”

“And you’ve checked anyway?”

Arthur stops what he’s doing and turns to fully face Eames. “I’m good at research. But I have standards. There are lines I don’t cross. I’d never pry into your medical records.” He smiles. “But there are things I could deduce from what I did find.”

Eames imagines that even without medical records, he has few secrets from Arthur. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

“Do you still want to go under now?” Arthur asks.

“Yes. Show me something else.” He holds his wrist out to Arthur, who takes it gently, smoothly inserting the needle. Eames leans back in the corner of the sofa and prepares to be dazzled again.

———

The lobby they’re standing in is all glass and polished granite. Outside the windows is a busy street full of people. It’s quiet inside. He turns round and sees, over by a bank of lifts, a security desk staffed by a uniformed woman. He follows Arthur over to her. Arthur signs a register and hands Eames a security pass on a lanyard, hangs one round his own neck. “Thank you,” he says to the guard. “Tenth floor?”

“Very sleek,” says Eames, in the left. “Where are we?”

“Company headquarters,” says Arthur, cryptically.

“Are we coming to see someone?”

“Who would you like to see?”

“It’s your dream.”

“Sure, but you’re here, so: who do you want to see?”

Who _does_ he want to see?

The lift’s digital readout flashes from 1 to 10 without going through the intervening numbers. “Why waste time?” Arthur says as the bell dings their arrival. The doors open on a wide carpeted hallway and Arthur leads the way to a dark wood door. “I wonder who it will be?” he says, knocking.

“Enter,” says a man’s voice. They step into a large office. Behind the executive desk is Mustard.

“I want to ask you some questions,” says Eames. “Why didn’t you listen to us, when we did what you wanted us to, and discovered what it was really good for? Why did you try to make us break each other? What sort of monster are you?”

Mustard smiles, a fake, placating expression that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What sort of monster am I? Why did I try to make you break each other? Why didn’t I listen?” He’s just parroting the questions. Of course. Eames turns away. “Let’s go.” He slams the door as they leave.

“That was pretty stupid of me,” he says, striding down the hallway back to the lift.

“Yes, that’s not how it works. If we could somehow get him, take him under with us, then we could ask.”

“Nah,” says Eames. “What’s the point, really?” He jabs the button for the lift and the doors slide open.

Arthur presses the floor button, but they’re not going down, the number flashes: 23. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

The lift opens into a service corridor. Arthur opens a door and they step out onto the roof. The vista stretches away, a vague cityscape, and in the distance, mountains. “Come over to the edge,” says Arthur. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

He is, a bit, but he follows, intrigued. Arthur is standing at the low wall. “You remember how to get out of a dream, before the time is up?”

“Getting shot.”

“Dying.”

Arthur steps up onto the ledge. Eames’ stomach flips. “Arthur …”

“Do you trust me?”

He swallows. “Of course.”

Arthur holds out his hand. Eames grasps it and steps onto the wall too.

“You can close your eyes.”

“I might.”

“Okay, ready?”

“I suppose so.”

“Right. Step off.”

Eames does close his eyes, feels the tug as Arthur steps off. And then they’re falling, the air rushing past his ears, Arthur’s hand firm around his. The impact is a momentary shock and then he’s opening his eyes in his sitting room.

———

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” says Arthur, a frown creasing his forehead. “Better than getting shot, I think.”

“I suppose so.” Eames shudders. “Not sure I’d step off alone.”

Arthur takes his wrist to get the needle out. His hand is warm, just like in the dream. He holds his thumb over the drop of blood that oozes up and keeps it there.

“Sorry,” he says softly. 

Eames closes his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says.

He can hear Arthur tidying the PASIV back into its case, the tiny click-click of the needles dropping into the sharps container. He opens his eyes and watches Arthur, the strong line of his back, his elegant long fingers.

Eames follows him to the stairs. Arthur looks up from the bottom of the flight and smiles.

***

Arthur doesn’t get in touch the next day. 

In Eames’ sitting room, the case lies on the coffee table, its silvery metal gleaming. He remembers how the mechanism worked in the first one. He unsnaps the clasps and raises the lid — Arthur didn’t lock it. 

He wants to go into a dream, wants to test an idea he has been turning over for months; one he thought he would never get a chance to try, but he hesitates to try on his own.

He has a game in the evening. A group of rich men he has cultivated very carefully, never winning so much so as to draw undue attention. He dresses to seem older than he is, vaguely eccentric, and combs his hair into a neat, somewhat retro style. The club where this group plays is a lot nicer than the one where Arthur found him. The other players are chatting at the bar. He orders a whisky that he will make last several hours — no one will notice how little he actually drinks.

“Shall we begin?” says a red-faced man smoking a cigar. Eames takes his seat. The less he says at these sessions the more he is able to take home. 

It is not very late when Eames steps out into the street. He will not have to play again this month. 

“Have a good night?” Arthur’s voice on the phone the next morning is not a surprise.

“Not bad,” says Eames. He wonders why he is being so non-commital. Habit of years of solitude, he supposes. 

“I’m coming over today,” says Arthur.

“That’s good. There’s something I want to show you.”

“See you at two o’clock.” 

At two o’clock exactly, the door buzzer sounds and he lets Arthur in and makes him coffee.

In the sitting room, Arthur says: “You asked Mustard some questions. I can tell you what James told me about the programme. He formulated Somnacin and built the PASIV. He was interested in dreams, always had been, since he had very vivid nightmares as a child. He thought it might be used in psychiatry, to give people easier access to their dreams.

“But the military found out about it, and they had other ideas. James thought he’d be able to guide the project, or influence it somehow, if he agreed to let them use it. He still thought it would be used to help people, perhaps soldiers returning from tours of duty who needed to process their experiences—”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” says Eames. 

“When I realised what you were working on, I was certain you’d be interested. And then James …” He stops talking, turns to look out of the window. After a minute he turns back. “He was horrified when Mustard got far too interested in the idea it could be used to interrogate people. He wanted to get out, but he’d signed a contract ceding the tech. He was relieved when the programme collapsed. He was really brilliant, but he didn’t understand people very well. He assumed they were better than they turned out to be.”

“Do you really think the military just lost interest and shut down the programme like you said the other day? Couldn’t they have got someone else, after he left? It doesn’t seem likely they’d just let it drop like that.”

Arthur sighs. “No. I lied, a bit. I’ve been trying to track down where the project moved to. The States, obviously. They didn’t need James to continue. They had the tech.”

“Why did you lie?”

“I was still feeling you out. I had to find out if you were interested in what I thought you were. I needed to find out how you would react to what I’d been doing.”

“You didn’t know already from all your snooping?” Anger flares up in Eames at the sense he’s been wrong-footed by Arthur and didn’t read him well enough to properly realise it.

“No, I couldn’t listen to your thoughts!” Arthur’s voice is sharp. “I’m sorry, Eames. I’m good at research. I wanted to know what you were doing. Can you let it go?”

“Why didn’t you just get in touch? Why not just ring me up and ask? Fuck, Arthur. No, I can’t just let it go!” His voice has risen. “In fact, I think you should just go now.” He stands up.

Arthur puts down his mug and stands too. “Yes, I suppose I should. I really am sorry, Eames.” He walks down the hall and disappears down the stairs, leaving Eames standing there, angry with Arthur and irritated with himself. 

“Fuck, Arthur!” He’s been so taken up with him and his dreams, so happy to see him again, already thinking of what they could do together, that he forgot he doesn’t actually know Arthur at all and has no real reason to trust the man he has become.

He grabs a jacket and pounds down the narrow stairs out into the chill, needing to walk fast. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He turns for home when a heavy drizzle starts as the day darkens.

He’s reading later when his phone buzzes again. Arthur is pretty persistent. 

“What?” he answers.

“I really am sorry, Eames. It was stupid and unfair of me.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Can I come over tomorrow? I know we could do amazing things together. Please let me try again?”

“I’m busy tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, let me know when you’re ready then.”

“Yes.” His anger is starting to ebb away. “I’ll ring you.”

***

After a day spent trying to be busy, he rings Arthur. “You can come over tomorrow,” he says. “Come in the morning.”

“Okay. Thank you, Eames.”

When he arrives, Arthur is flushed from the early morning chill and there is dampness misting his hair. Eames shouldn’t be thinking how gorgeous he looks. “Eager are you?” he says.

“Aren’t you?” says Arthur.

Eames laughs. “Yes, I am.”

They don’t mention their argument.

In the sitting room, the PASIV case gleams in the cool early light. 

“You don’t lock it,” says Eames.

“Why would I lock you out?” says Arthur.

“I haven’t used it though.”

“Yeah, solo dreaming can be … weird.”

“There’s something I want to try,” says Eames. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while. But I don’t know if it’ll work. Can we go into your Italian dream?”

“What is it?”

“Can I just try it first? You can tell me if it works.”

Arthur looks at him over the top of his coffee mug, speculative interest in his eyes.

“Okay. Anything special you might need in the dream?”

“A mirror?”

“You can add that, you know.”

“Won’t the dream get riled up if I start adding things?”

“Well, you told me, so, no. My subconscious will be fine. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“I have absolutely no idea. I don’t even know exactly how I’m going to do it.”

“Shall we try ten minutes? About two hours’ dreamtime.”

“If I can’t do it in that time, maybe it can’t be done,” says Eames.

Arthur leans forward to set his mug on the table and open the PASIV.

“I may have found a chemist,” he says as he inserts a Somnacin vial into the cradle and pulls out the lines.

“Oh?”

“Yes, bright Cambridge student who needs something to help fund his lifestyle.”

“I thought James’ accounts were frozen? Just how much cash did he leave lying around?”

“Quite a bit,” says Arthur, concentrating on fitting fresh needles. “And I have ideas about how we can make money.”

“I’ve got money,” says Eames. “And I can always make more.”

He picks up one of the lines. “I can put it in,” he says, robbing himself of a chance to feel Arthur’s warm, rough fingers on his skin.

“Alright,” says Arthur, watching as he inserts the needle. It hurts rather a lot more than when Arthur has done it, but he supposes he’ll get better at it in time.

Arthur inserts his own line and leans forward to press the button.

———

The square is full of morning sunlight and there’s a breeze that carries the scent of a garden.

“That building should give you the space you need,” says Arthur, nodding in the direction. “I’ll just have a coffee here and wait for you, shall I?”

“Alright,” says Eames, walking over to the shopfront Arthur has indicated. He opens the door. It’s empty apart from a table and a chair, but clean, as if recently swept and dusted. He closes his eyes and focuses his mind on the sort of triple mirror with hinged side panels his mother’s and grandmother’s dressing tables had. When he opens them, there it is, exactly as he remembers. He grins at his reflection and sits down to get to work. He needs someone he knows well, but who Arthur will also recognise. Frank, the manager at the cafe, will do.

He concentrates on his reflection, thinking of the man’s unique traits and oddities. The way his left eye droops a tiny amount, the way his hair stands up a bit at the back. He thinks of his clothes, jeans sagging on his hips, the way his stomach stretches his stained T-shirt, the tea towel tucked into his pocket instead of an apron.

He sees himself shift slightly, then more and more, in the three mirrors. It is unsettling, more uncanny than he expected. His teeth are still crooked and he realises he’s never seen Frank’s teeth, he doesn’t smile widely enough. 

There’s a clock on the wall, and he notices that he’s been in the shop almost an hour. Arthur must be wondering what the hell he’s doing and why it’s taking so long. 

He opens the door and steps back into the square. Arthur is sitting on the low wall of the fountain in the middle, reading an Italian newspaper. He looks up as Eames’ shadow falls on him — and frowns.

“Hello, Arthur.” The voice isn’t perfect, but it’s not Eames’ voice.

“Hello,” says Arthur, his frown bleeding into his voice. 

“Do you recognise me?”

“The manager at Eames’ cafe? Why are you here?”

Eames smiles, wide enough to show his teeth.

“Eames?”

“Yes,” he says. “This is what I wanted to try.” 

“You can shape-shift?”

“Well, I didn’t know if I could. But it turns out I can.”

“Fuck,” says Arthur. “That’s … fuck. That’s amazing.” He stands up and comes closer, walking round Eames and studying him intently.

“Why do you still have your own teeth?”

“I’ve never seen his. Also, I wanted to leave something so you could tell what I had done.”

“Fuck,” says Arthur again.

“Do you think this could be useful?”

“Yes! I do.” Arthur frowns again. “Eames, can you change back? It’s very disturbing, talking to you when you’re not … you.”

“Okay. Here?”

“No. Let’s go back inside.”

So they walk back across the square. In the empty shop, Arthur says: “Nice mirror. Fancy.”

“Thank you.” Eames closes his eyes and stops thinking of the cafe manager. He looks in the mirror and sees himself return.

“That’s creepy,” says Arthur. “Not sure I want to see that again.” He steps up behind Eames and puts his hand on his shoulder. In the mirror, Eames can’t see his face, only his legs and body, and his hand, warm and reassuring. Grounding. 

“How do you feel?” says Arthur.

“Exhausted.” 

“We have a bit of time left here. What do you want to do?”

“Sit in the square with you. Listen to your seagulls.”

Arthur laughs, delighted. “Okay, we can do that. You don’t want to leave early?”

“No!” Eames doesn’t want that trauma on top of the oddness of what he’s just done.

“No, I didn’t think so.” 

It’s pleasant, sitting on the rim of the fountain, listening to the gulls and the rustle of Arthur’s newspaper. A church bell tolls the hour.

———

Eames is still exhausted, slumped on the sofa. Arthur’s hand is warm on his arm as he takes out the needle, his thumb pressing over the drop of blood that oozes up. “What do you need?” he says.

“A nap,” says Eames. “I’m buggered.”

Arthur snorts with amusement. “Okay, go lie down. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Not now.” Eames gets to his feet and staggers to the bedroom. He feels like he’s been up for 24 hours. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you mind if I look at your books?”

“Help yourself,” Eames says around a yawn, and lies down on top of his covers.

When he wakes he can tell he’s been asleep for several hours. He lies still and listens to the sounds of his not-empty flat. There’s a delicious aroma drifting down the hall and quiet kitchen noises. He goes to the bathroom before looking for Arthur. He’s at the sink, his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel tucked into his belt like an apron, washing dishes. There’s a pot on the stove.

Arthur looks over his shoulder. “I found some soup in the freezer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Of course not. Thank you.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.” Eames yawns. “Still sleepy though. I didn’t expect it to be so tiring. Maybe it’ll get easier.”

As they eat, Arthur asks: “How did you know you could do that? Shape-shifting?”

“I’m not sure I’d call it that,” says Eames. “Forging, maybe.” Arthur smiles but doesn’t interrupt. “Well, you know how in dreams, real ones, you often don’t have a sense of your physical self, and sometimes you do things not governed by physics? I wondered if it would be possible to project a different image. And it’s something I do anyway, in real life. When I’m playing, I perform a role, to throw the others off, so they can’t read me.”

“I’d like to see that,” says Arthur.

“So anyway, I concentrated on the person I wanted to … forge. On his quirks. I could make him seem real enough to you, but you’ve only seen him once. I doubt it would have fooled someone who knew him well. But it wasn’t bad. For a first try.”

“It was uncanny. And it was very weird seeing it slip off. Seeing you slip out. Or whatever.”

“It was bloody hard work, holding it in place, even for such a short time. I need to practise more.”

“Yes. The Somnacin is running out though,” says Arthur.

“So do you think forging would be useful for what you have in mind for the PASIV?”

“I do. Because what I’ve been thinking of is a way to make it pay. Hire out its services. Extract secrets.” He stops and looks intently at Eames, trying to gauge his reaction.

“What sort of secrets?” 

“Well, you could probably use it for any kind, but I wasn’t thinking of anything intimate. More like corporate espionage. Trade secrets. Corporations would be willing to pay. Big bucks,” he adds.

“Bit of a waste, don’t you think?” says Eames.

“Well, yes. But it would pay, and we wouldn’t run the risk of fucking with anyone’s personality or anything.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Until we understand it better, at least.”

“James left quite a bit of money lying around, but not _that_ much.”

“So you need to start earning your own. Of course.”

“Also, I’m sick of being kept. James never wanted anything in return. But still.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Arthur, but it sounds like rather an odd relationship.”

Arthur laughs. “Yes, rather odd.”

“But a relationship. I’m a bit envious.”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never …?”

“Not never. But not for any length of time. Never met anyone interesting enough.” _Until you_ , he doesn’t add. 

“He was certainly interesting. But he didn’t do relationships, like that.” Arthur frowns. “Not like that.”

“And no one else?” Eames says.

“Well, it was a pretty small place.”

“The only gay in the village?”

“ _What_?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Oh. Maybe.” Arthur stands up. “I should go,” he says, bending to pick up Eames’ mug.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me for prying, Arthur.”

“It’s okay,” says Arthur, but his shoulders are stiff as he leaves the room. Eames could kick himself. 

***

Arthur doesn’t get in touch the next day, but Eames tells himself it’s because he was going to see the chemist and they couldn’t have done anything anyway. That’s what he tells himself, but he doesn’t really believe it.

He spends the time thinking about forging. How much of a person do you need to represent for it to be convincing, how might the texture of a dream affect other people’s perceptions of the forge, what could you do to suggest to the person you were trying to convince that they were seeing who you wanted them to see?

And also about Arthur’s idea of discovering secrets for clients. How would they find these clients? Some of the people he plays with might pay to have a bit of espionage done. Is it worth the risk of muddying that pool when he might still need to swim there for cash?

He is reasonably certain Arthur will be back, but how much will their working arrangement be strained by his clumsy questions?

The whole day feels incomplete, so he rings a contact and finds a game, even though it’s not one of his regular gigs. A risk — it’s easier to beat players he has had time to study. The game room is at the back of the sort of club he usually avoids: women with carefully empty expressions, men with avid eyes, music bleeding from the many private rooms. As he walks through the main space, a woman approaches him with an invitation. She’s tiny, blonde, and wearing a dress that suggests bondage if that’s where your imagination goes. He turns her down, but can’t help admiring the skill she has devoted to her image. 

“Maybe later,” she says as she lets him go.

“Maybe,” he says.

The other players all know each other well enough to gossip at the table, which makes Eames’ job easier. He could win far more than he allows himself to, but he lets one guy take him for quite a large sum. He’s the one complaining about how a business rival is encroaching on his territory.

“I can’t fucking get ahead,” he says. “Bastard always seems to have got to suppliers just before I do, tied up the product.” 

He’s had a bit to drink and is being indiscreet, Eames thinks. The other players murmur manly sympathy: “Fucker.” “Wanker.”

When the game is over, he approaches and speaks quietly: “I might be able to help with your … situation.”

The man looks him up and down, blearily. “That so?”

“This is my number.”

“Thanks,” says the guy, gruffly. “Sorry about …”

“Can’t win them all, eh?” says Eames, rueful. “Wasn’t my night, I suppose.”

The place is quite far from the caff, but he goes there anyway, walking in the pre-dawn chill, past the closed restaurants, stepping round bulging bags put out for the bin men.

Frank greets him cheerfully. “The usual, mate?”

“Thanks,” he says, sitting at a table where the previous occupant has abandoned yesterday’s evening paper. There’s nothing interesting in the headlines, but he reads them anyway. 

It’s light and the streets are busy when he finally leaves.

***

“I have the Somnacin.” Arthur is clipped on the phone.

“Hello, Arthur,” says Eames, rubbing his eyes. 

“Hello, Eames.” There’s a touch of … something in his voice. “We need to test it, make sure it’s okay before he makes a bigger batch. Can I come over?”

“Sure. When?”

“Now?”

“Alright.”

Within 15 minutes, the buzzer startles him. 

“That was quick,” he says as Arthur comes up the stairs.

“Well, I was at the station when I rang.”

“Took a chance.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I wasn’t busy.” He doesn’t say he was still asleep after getting in at 7am.

Arthur reaches into his bag and pulls out a small brown glass bottle. “Here it is,” he says, starting down the hall. Eames follows. Arthur hasn’t really smiled at him. He already has the PASIV case open and is pouring a dose into the reservoir. “Can you fit the needles? Just a quick dream,” he says, turning the dial. 

“Where are we going?”

“Italy.” He presses the button.

———

Long shadows stretch across the square. Arthur strides off towards the cafe in the corner, leaving Eames standing by the fountain. After a minute he follows. Arthur is standing at the bar, an espresso in front of him. The man behind the counter ignores Eames completely, looks through him.

“Why did you invite me if you’re just going to ignore me?”

Arthur turns to look at him. “I need you to help test the compound.”

“Fine. It seems okay.”

“Yeah, so far. There is no noticeable lack of clarity. This tastes alright. Not the best I’ve ever had, but you know, alright.” 

“Do you want me to …?”

“Not this time.”

“I’ll go for a walk then. No espresso for me, I guess.” He turns and leaves before Arthur can respond. He walks up the street where the fruit stall was the time before, but it is empty. The light is flatter too. And he can’t hear the gulls. In fact, the whole experience is less vivid, somehow. He turns to go back to the square. Now ahead of him is a teenage boy, slouching along, kicking a pebble. He catches up to him. The boy looks up: “Watch it!” he says, scowling.

“Sorry,” says Eames, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Bet you didn’t,” says the boy, giving the pebble a vicious kick that sends it skittering out across the square. Eames hurries back to the fountain, where Arthur is standing. He looks pointedly at his watch.

———

“What was all that about?” says Eames, rubbing his hand down his face.

“Guess I was still pissed at you.”

Eames plucks the needle from his elbow and gets up. Arthur follows him down the hall.

“What did you think?”

“Aside from being ignored? It seemed … flatter, duller.”

“The barista ignoring you was definitely me,” says Arthur. “I don’t know if the texture was the compound or my mood.”

“The surly teenager was definitely your mood.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Well, it’s me who is sorry. I understand what you were saying. Please forgive me for being an arsehole.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I’m so prickly. It’s been a weird few years.” He sighs. “A very weird few years.” 

Eames has made tea, he hands a mug to Arthur. “How are we going to test whether the odd texture was you or the Somnacin?”

“I could go down alone. I really hope it’s not the compound.”

“Now?”

“I’ll just finish my tea,” says Arthur, and he smiles for the first time since he arrived. “I’ll go for a quick walk, see if the dream still seems off,” he says, back in the sitting room a few minutes later.

It’s strange, watching Arthur dream.

“I don’t think it was the compound,” Arthur says, opening his eyes. “So that’s a relief.”

“Yes,” says Eames.

“It was interesting, how my subconscious reacted to you, before. Worth remembering. I have forgiven you now, you know.” Arthur stands up and stretches, his jumper riding up slightly at his waist. Eames tries not to look at the sliver of skin that reveals.

“Thank you.” Arthur smiles at him. “What do you want to do now?” says Eames.

“I’ll ring the chemist and tell him to go ahead and make a bigger batch.”

“I think I may have met a client.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, guy I played cards with. He was complaining about a business rival. I said I might be able to help him.”

“What business is he in?”

“I don’t know. Something that needs suppliers. The others all knew each other, so I didn’t get the full story. I gave him my number, we’ll have to see if he gets in touch.”

“We’d have to work out how to get hold of the … mark, I guess, to get them under.”

“Yes, and construct a dreamspace that will seem familiar to them, give them somewhere to put their secrets. We’ll have to do surveillance. Do you think the two of us will be able to do it? Manage all the elements?”

“Who else is there?”

“What happened to Black, from the programme?”

“Jane? She’s in the States. I wouldn’t trust the others anyway.”

“No, of course.”

Evening has fallen while they’ve been talking; Eames gets up to turn on the lights. 

“What do you want to do now?”

“Did you eat today, Eames?”

“Well, I had breakfast. But I’d just woken up when you rang. Long night.”

“Do you want to go and get something? It’s a bit early …”

“There’s a good little Japanese place nearby.” He stands up. “I need a shower though.”

“I’ll call the chemist while you’re busy.”

Eames hears him start his phone call as he walks down the hall to the bathroom. When he’s finished, Arthur is sitting on the sofa paging through an art book.

He looks up. “You ready? I’d love to see these on a wall,” he says, holding up the book. Mark Rothko. “No art museums where I come from.” Arthur has never said where exactly he comes from, only referring vaguely to the Midwest.

“Tate Modern has an amazing series,” says Eames.

Arthur sets the book down and stands up. “Let's go eat,” he says, and follows Eames down the hall. 

Over a dinner of miso soup and teriyaki they discuss how they might conduct an espionage job. The roles each of them could fill: surveillance, research, building the dreamspace, getting the mark into the dream, discovering the secret.

***

He doesn’t hear from either Arthur or the poker guy the next day.

But when he takes his phone out of his locker at the gym the day after, the message light is blinking: he’s just missed a call from the poker guy. “It’s Guy Fielding. We met at poker. Call me.”

He rings Arthur as he walks home through a chilly drizzle.

“Our first job!” says Arthur.

“Maybe,” says Eames, “I let you know what he says.”

Back at home he rings Fielding back. 

“Fielding.”

“Eames. You called about a problem?” he says.

“Yes. I need some … insight into another business. A rival.” 

“Yes. That’s what my partners and I specialise in. Trickier cases.”

“Good. Let’s not discuss it on the phone. Come to my office at …” the line goes quiet for a moment “at 6.30 today.”

“Certainly.” Fielding gives him an address in Dagenham, of all places. “6.30 then.”

He rings Arthur. “He phoned,” he says.

“Oh, wow, okay.” Arthur sounds out of breath. “I’m running,” he explains.

“He wants a meeting at 6.30. Do you think we should both go, or just me? I was vague, referred to ‘partners’. I think if you came too, it would seem less like it’s just me, you know, possibly blowing smoke up his ass.”

“But he’s at least met you, might be more forthcoming with someone he knows.”

“Yes, but that might make him think we aren’t serious, just one guy from a poker game. As opposed to two professionals. And you certainly look the part of the serious young professional.”

Arthur laughs.

They agree to meet at the station in Dagenham. There are no taxis, so they have to walk.

“Where the hell is this place?” says Arthur.

“Not that much further,” says Eames, hoping he’s right.

They find it just as the evening damp starts to turn to actual drizzle, and step into the slightly tatty building. 

The reception area has a stained brown carpet and a girly calendar on the wall. “Classy,” says Arthur, under his breath. 

Fielding comes through from the back. “You made it,” he says. “Filthy weather.”

“Eames. This is my partner—” It occurs to him he doesn’t know what surname Arthur is using now. 

Arthur steps forward smoothly. “Arthur Levine.”

“Guy Fielding. Come through.” He leads them into an office with a battered desk and a scuffed leather sofa. There’s another dodgy calendar on the wall and a couple of trophies on a shelf.

“Drink?” says Fielding, holding up a whisky bottle.

“Sure,” says Eames. 

Fielding waves them to the sofa, leaning against the desk himself. 

“How can we help you, Guy?” says Eames.

“Well, depends what you do, doesn’t it? If I could get a handle on this fucker’s supply lines, I could put him out of business. Foreigners, you see. Don’t play by our rules. Playing field’s not level.”

“We specialise in very thorough research. Very detailed,” says Eames. “We’ve had success finding out things no one else could. I am certain we could help you, Guy.” He gives him what he hopes comes off as a chummy smile.

“Yes,” says Arthur next to him, “Very deep research. We can infiltrate the opposition and discover their secrets.”

“Well, I certainly hope so! This bastard is pushing me out of business. I’ve been here 10 years and he just comes along with all his foreign contacts and undercuts me. I have to earn a living, I’ve got a wife and kids. Not like these foreigners. Probably lives with his auntie.”

“If you’ll just give us a few details about this competitor, we should be able to start within days,” says Eames. “We have an opening in the calendar, don’t we, Arthur?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “The,” he clears his throat “job should be wrapped up in a day or two.”

“Good timing!” says Eames, draining his whisky.

“I’ve got the details here,” says Fielding. “How _do_ you go about your, er, research?”

“It’s a bit technical,” says Arthur.

“Can’t give away _our_ secrets, can we?” says Eames.

Fielding laughs. “No, s’ppose not. He picks up a piece of paper from the desk and leans forward to give it to Eames. “All there,” he says.

“Right, that’s great,” says Eames, folding the paper and putting it in his inner pocket. “Now if we could just talk cost. I’m sure you understand that research as thorough as ours doesn’t come cheap.”

They had discussed this over dinner.

“Enough to seem impressive, not so much as to scare him off,” Arthur had said. “Ten thousand.”

“He won three off me the other night. No less than twenty,” Eames had countered.

Eames names the sum. 

Fielding’s eyes widen slightly. Eames stares him down. 

“Half before we start, naturally,” says Arthur.

Fielding gives in. “Yes, right. Of course, I don’t keep that kind of cash on site,” he says.

“That’s alright,” says Eames, “I’ll collect it tomorrow. Same time?”

Outside, Arthur laughs. “Fuck, Eames, our first job.”

“What the hell have we got ourselves into, though,” says Eames, grinning at him. “We don’t even know what business they’re in.”

“Simple,” says Arthur, “No problem.”

***

Arthur rings in the morning. “Can I come over and work at your place?”

Arthur arrives within the hour and Eames sets him up in his study with a cup of coffee.

“I’m off to the gym.”

“You’re pretty dedicated,” says Arthur.

“Got to maintain this,” says Eames, gesturing; Arthur’s eyes slide down Eames’ body, and he blushes slightly.

He steps out of the study when Eames gets back. “Good workout?”

“Not bad. How’s the research?”

“Laughably easy,” says Arthur. He’s leaning in the kitchen doorway while Eames slings clothes into the washing machine. “Turns out Fielding imports car parts. Vintage. This competitor is Polish. Apparently has better contacts for that kind of thing. Possibly. Fielding may just not be as good a negotiator as he thinks. I don’t think it would actually take a dream to find out the Polish guy’s ‘secret’, but we could do it anyway. Seeing neither of us can read Polish, so we can’t just hack his email.”

“It would be fun to try. You know how you can read Italian in your dream? I’m guessing you can’t actually do that in real life?” Arthur nods. “But you had a passing familiarity with the language. Will we be able to manage Polish in a dream?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“I suppose so. What’s the next step?”

“Surveillance, so we can create a suitable dream space, and think of a way to get him under in the first place. And you have to go collect the cash.”

“Bugger, all the way out to bloody Dagenham again.”

“Tough life,” says Arthur, grinning at him again. “Do you want to do a … forge?”

“Not sure it’ll be necessary. Bit of roleplay might be all it needs. I think I need to work on that idea a bit more before using it. Practise. Understand the possibilities. Know the limits. When are you collecting the rest of the Somancin?”

“Thursday.” Arthur pushes off the doorframe. “I better get going. I need to get in a run.” 

Eames allows his eyes to travel down Arthur’s body. “You’re pretty dedicated,” he says. Arthur smiles in acknowledgement and goes back into the study to pack up his things. 

He comes back with his messenger bag slung across his chest. “So I’ll see you Thursday. Let me know how the cash thing goes.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Bye, Eames.” Arthur disappears down the stairs. The flat feels empty without him; he’s got used to the quasi-domesticity a bit too quickly for comfort.

The trip out to Dagenham is just as tedious as it was the day before, but at least it’s not drizzling, so the walk is less trying. Fielding is in the reception area when he arrives, leaning on the desk, talking at a young woman.

“There you are,” he says, as if Eames is late, “you nearly missed me.” Eames raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. 

“Come through,” says Fielding. In his office he unlocks a drawer in his desk and hands Eames a thick envelope. “Ten thousand.”

Eames opens it and sees four thick wads of £50 notes. Feeling a bit gauche, he takes one out and riffles it against his thumb. 

“It’s all there,” says Fielding, testily.

“Sure, yes.” says Eames. “We’ll let you know our progress. But getting deep into a company can take time.”

“Better not take too long, at that price,” says Fielding.

Eames slips the cash into the attache case he brought. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and turns to go. Fielding is getting on his nerves.

Back in his flat, he takes the four wads of cash out of the envelope and stacks them on his desk. He can’t quite believe it was so easy to persuade Fielding to pay this much up front. He wishes Arthur was here to share the triumph. So he rings him. Once again Arthur is out of breath when he answers. “Cash looks very good in neat bundles,” says Eames.

“Yeah?” says Arthur.

“Very good.”

“Well, don’t spend it all.” Arthur laughs. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Yes, Thursday.” Eames ends the call and sits at his desk staring at the cash. 

They’re really going to do this.

***

Arthur hands him a notebook when he arrives.

“What’s this?”

“Research. I thought we could start doing surveillance today.” He hangs his messenger bag over the newel post at the top of the stairs and takes off his coat. “Coffee first though, is there any?” he says, stepping into the kitchen.

Eames’ chest hurts, briefly, at all this easy domesticity. He wonders if Arthur realises what he’s doing. Or if he’s doing it on purpose. “Sure,” he says, “I’ll make some.”

“No, I can,” says Arthur, reaching into the cupboard for the cafetiere and the coffee.

Eames leans against the counter and opens the notebook. Arthur’s writing is neat block capitals. Filip Lisiewicz, the name of the “mark”, is at the top of the first page, followed by an address in Ealing. “Convenient,” he says. “Just down the road, as it were.”

“Oh?” says Arthur. “That’s good. I haven’t looked at a map.” He pours a mug of coffee and gestures with the pot at Eames.

“No, I’ve had tea.”

“So, show me the money.” He follows Eames to the study.

He takes the envelope from a drawer and hands it to Arthur. “I didn’t really believe he’d have it for me when I went there.”

“Me either.” Arthur opens the envelope and peers inside. “Mmmm.”

“Do you want to take your half now?” says Eames.

“No, keep it here. Can’t leave it in my room and I wouldn’t want to put it in the hotel safe.” Arthur finishes his coffee. “Shall we go?”

Out on the street, Eames says: “This is going to seem ridiculous, but the easiest way to get to Ealing is by bus.”

Arthur grins. “Pretty silly,” he says, following Eames to the bus stop on the High Street.

The mark’s address is an ordinary terrace in a side street, which makes it difficult to observe without drawing attention by loitering.

“I wonder if he works from home? We need to get in to get a sense of the place so I can build a space,” says Arthur as they continue down the street and round the corner. 

“Deliver a package?”

“That won’t get us inside, though.”

“Yeah, not much point just seeing the hall.” They circle the block and approach the house again. Eames goes up the steps. There is a bell panel with several names: the house has been divided into flats and their guy lives on the top floor. 

“One of us could be a gas company worker, read the meter, something like that.”

“You’d be better at that,” says Arthur. “But I have more experience building spaces.”

“I could describe it, you could build it and I could check it.”

“I guess that might work. It’s hard to know how accurate it has to be in order to fool the mark.”

“Yes. But if we fuck it up, we can just break into his office and steal the stuff the normal way.”

“Eames!”

“What? You know this hardly needs a dream, we just need the practice.”

“But I’d rather not get arrested on our first try.”

“No.” Eames laughs as they walk away down the High Street.

He goes back in the afternoon wearing jeans and a nondescript jacket. Rings Filip Lisiewicz’s bell. The voice that answers is heavily accented. “Yes?”

“Gas reading,” says Eames.

“What?”

“I need to read your gas meter.”

“Man came last week.”

 _Damn_. “There was a problem. I need to read it again.”

“Okay.” The voice is reluctant and there’s a slight pause before the door releases. Eames almost trips over a child’s bicycle in the hall, and immediately sees the problem. The gas meters are next to the doors of the flats. He climbs the stairs and knocks on Lisiewicz’s door. 

He can hear Lisiewicz saying something in Polish as he approaches the door. “What?” The door is opened a crack. “Meter is there. Outside.”

“Yes. Hello,” says Eames. “Sorry to bother. I need to check your cooker as well.”

Lisiewicz narrows his eyes, suspicious. “Why?” 

“There may be a problem.”

“No smell, no leak,” says Lisiewicz.

“No, no, nothing like that,” says Eames. “Just a quick check.”

Lisiewicz harrumphs and steps back, opening the door. The flat is small, the kitchen at the left as he enters, the sitting room at the end of the hall. He can see a table strewn with papers under the window.

“Cooker is there.”

“Shouldn’t take a minute,” says Eames, twiddling the greasy knobs and opening the oven, Lisiewicz looming over his shoulder.

“Just need a quick look at your radiators, too,” he says, into the oven.

“Why?” 

“Just a check,” he says, straightening up and stepping through the door, forcing Lisiewicz to follow him. He looks around the sitting room. There’s a battered filing cabinet in a corner. “Work from home, do you?” he says. “Must be nice. Beats driving around all over.” He twiddles the knob on the radiator as well. “Now the bedroom,” he says. “If you don’t mind.” Lisiewicz shrugs and gestures to the door. The bedroom is small and neat, aside from clothes flung over a chair. All men’s clothes, he notes.

“Thanks,” says Eames, making a note on his clipboard. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

“Okay,” says Lisiewicz, herding him to the door.

He sketches a plan in Arthur’s notebook as he waits for the bus and notes everything he can recall.

“This shouldn’t be difficult,” says Arthur, looking at his sketch back at the flat. “The filing cabinet would be a pretty good place to start looking, I guess.”

“A simple break-in would be a lot easier.”

“And a lot more illegal.”

“Stealing people’s thoughts isn’t illegal?”

“Well, it’s not against the _law_. Are you getting cold feet, Eames?”

“No ... no. I suppose this is as good a place to start as any. It’s just hard to see what this guy might know that is really worth twenty thousand quid to Fielding.”

“You think they’re really in a different business altogether? It’s crossed my mind.”

“Car parts could be more lucrative than we realise.”

Arthur snorts. “Could be.” He looks at Eames’ sketch again. “Was there a locked drawer or anything in his bedroom?”

“Not that I saw, but it was a pretty quick look. He was breathing down my neck.”

A tiny, fleeting smile crosses Arthur’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing. I hope he wasn’t close enough to actually breathe on you.” He holds Eames’ eyes, his own tightening slightly, before he looks back at the notebook. Eames has to take a deep breath himself.

“I’m going to start planning this. It’s a small space, so it shouldn’t be too long. We can test it … day after tomorrow, I guess?”

“What do you need?”

“The use of your desk. A cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” Eames leaves Arthur in the study and goes to make coffee.

Two hours later, Arthur comes down the hall to where Eames is reading in the sitting room. He stands in the doorway stretching. The hem of his t-shirt rides up.

“You want to get dinner?” Arthur drops his arms and tugs on his shirt.

“Sure. It might be good to get out for a bit.”

“I don’t really feel like going out,” says Arthur. “Can we order in?”

“Pizza?”

“Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I ordered pizza in. Nothing like that where I’ve been living.”

Eames gets up to find the pizza flyer. Arthur chooses the biggest one they have, with extra anchovies and capers. 

“Damn, I missed that,” he says when all that remains is the grease-spotted box. He drains his beer and yawns. “I guess I better go.” But he doesn’t stand up.

“You don’t have to,” says Eames.

Arthur is leaning back in the corner of the sofa. “I really should.” But he still doesn’t get up to leave. Instead, he pushes a red-socked foot across the sofa cushion, his eyes locked on Eames’, until his toes are kneading his thigh.

Eames closes his hand on Arthur’s ankle and shifts closer, leaning in. Arthur stretches out and runs his fingers lightly from Eames’ cheekbone to his mouth; drags them, still a bit greasy, across his lips. He swallows, his throat working. “Come on,” he whispers, and Eames closes the gap between them, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s.

The tip of Arthur’s tongue darts out to meet him and he pulls Eames forward with a hand on the back of his neck.

Eames has a hand high on Arthur’s thigh, he pulls back from their kiss just far enough to say: “Don’t go,” and Arthur whispers: “No,” and arches up to meet Eames again and Eames has wanted to kiss Arthur ever since he saw him in the alley. Ever since Cambridge.

Arthur slides down until he’s under Eames and they’re not just kissing now, they’re grinding against each other. Eames pushes his hand into Arthur’s hair and tugs the strands gently and Arthur gasps and deepens their kiss. His fingers are digging painfully, desperately, into Eames’ shoulders, and his whole body is trembling and then he pushes at Eames and breaks their kiss … and comes. Eames sees it in his eyes and feels Arthur’s whole body strain towards it. 

“Oh god,” he whispers, “oh god. Fuck!” He sounds almost angry.

“Shh,” Eames soothes. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry. Coming in my pants. Like a teenager.”

“Sorry? Why? I’m flattered.”

Arthur’s blushing furiously, but he laughs, shakily.

Eames puts his hand on the button of Arthur’s jeans. “May I?” he says. Arthur nods, and Eames undoes the button and tugs his pants down. He shuffles back and drops his face to Arthur’s crotch, inhaling the heavy musk. 

Arthur gasps as Eames licks, cleaning his now-soft cock. “God, Eames,” he breathes.

Eames smiles against him. He aching for his own release now. He kneels up, licking his lips, and looks straight at Arthur. 

Arthur leans forward, eases his zip down and reaches into Eames’ underwear, closes his long fingers around his cock. He smiles, a sort of private smile, as if confirming some long-held belief. Eames braces a hand on the sofa back and thrusts into Arthur’s hand, Arthur’s warm, dry hand, and then Arthur swipes his thumb over the tip and — “Christ” — Eames comes, all over Arthur.

Arthur positively beams and pulls him down and kisses him fiercely. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t look sorry at all.

“Sorry,” Eames whispers back, “I’m like a teenager too.”

And then Arthur pushes at his shoulder and he sits back on his heels and tucks himself back into his pants and stands up and gives Arthur his hand and pulls him to his feet. 

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “I need a shower,” he says.

“And clean clothes,” says Eames.

Arthur looks down at himself. “Yeah,” he says, a note of giddy amazement in his voice. “Yeah, I do.”

“Go on,” says Eames. “I’ll find you something.”

Arthur reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and strips it off as he walks towards the bathroom, revealing his lean back to Eames. Eames follows him and hands him a towel from the shelf, leaning in to kiss him as he does. Arthur pushes his jeans and underwear down and kicks them off and sits down on the edge of the bath to pull off his red socks. Eames leans over to turn on the water and gathers up the discarded clothes as Arthur steps into the tub. He backs towards the door as Arthur bends to get the soap.

He puts Arthur’s clothes in the washing machine and goes to find him something to wear. He’s put tracksuit pants and a t-shirt on the bed and is reaching into his underwear drawer when Arthur comes in, the towel wrapped low on his hips.

“I don’t need those now, do I?” he says.

Eames is startled into a laugh. “No. Of course not.”

Arthur walks towards him, pulling the towel loose. “Good,” he says, “I’ll just wait for you here then.” He pulls back the duvet and gets into the bed as if he belongs there. 

“I’ll just go …” Eames gestures vaguely.

“Yes. I’ll be waiting.”

Eames picks up the towel that Arthur dropped and goes to the bathroom, grinning.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Arthur is sitting in his bed, the covers around his hips, reading the book from his nightstand. He looks up and tosses the book aside, his eyes dark and intent on Eames, skimming down his chest. He bites his bottom lip. “Come here,” he says, his voice rough, and deeper than usual. 

Eames drops his towel and walks towards the bed and Arthur shifts over and kicks the covers down, giving Eames his first full look at him. Arthur is slender, his chest smooth and leanly muscled. He draws his long elegant feet up, letting his thighs sprawl open. Eames gets onto the bed and crawls towards Arthur, takes the hand he’s holding out. “Look at you,” he says, nonsensically.

“I’m looking at _you_ ,” says Arthur, “God, I should have guessed.” And he tugs Eames forward till he falls and has to catch himself on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Guessed what?”

Arthur gestures, waving his hand vaguely. “All this.”

Eames looks down at himself — his defined chest, tattoos, worked-on abs — and shrugs. “Passes the time,” he says, ducking his head towards Arthur, bringing their mouths together again. Arthur still tastes faintly of pizza and beer. He pulls Eames closer with his other hand on the back of his head. And then they’re chest to chest, skin on skin, and again, Arthur slides down under him, and wraps a leg around Eames’ and they’re rutting against each other.

Until Arthur drops Eames’ hand and pushes at his chest.

“What?” he says, sitting back on his heels.

Arthur flicks his eyes down and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. “I don’t want … I want … let me …” 

Eames rolls to the side, dragging Arthur on top of him. Arthur trails his mouth along his jaw and throat, sucking at his skin, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. He pulls Eames’ hand to the back of his head, pushing into it, and shuffles down the bed, his hands on Eames’ chest, his hips, then brushing lower, along the insides of his thighs, his chin bumping the head of Eames’ cock. He tips his head back to look up at Eames and then bobs forward, taking him in.

Eames hasn’t been a monk, but it’s been a while, and Arthur isn’t just someone he liked the look of, he’s _Arthur_ — clever, shy, mysterious Arthur. He’s a little inexpert, out of practice maybe, but that doesn’t matter. He keeps tipping his head back into Eames’ hand until he gets the message and pushes down himself, tugging a bit on his hair, still damp from the shower, and feels Arthur shudder. Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ cock and that’s enough to take him to the edge. He warns Arthur with the hand that has been clutching at the sheet and Arthur pulls off with a look of slight surprise and Eames comes on his stomach and chest. Arthur leans forward and kisses Eames, harder than before, and then he licks his stomach.

“I wasn’t sure,” says Eames, “didn’t want to presume.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and looks amused.

He picks up Eames’ hand and turns it over. “Your beautiful hands,” he says, and leans forward and runs his fingers across Eames’ mouth. “And your gorgeous mouth. Put them on me again. Please?”

So Eames does, stroking his hands down Arthur’s body, trailing his mouth on every part of his trembling skin, as Arthur shudders under him, until he reaches his cock again. Arthur smells of soap more than of himself. Eames takes his time, until Arthur is moaning and thrusting into his mouth. And then he swallows as Arthur comes.

When Eames gets up to pee later he steps on the still-damp washcloth he had dropped on the floor before collapsing against Arthur. He looks over his shoulder at Arthur sprawled inelegantly on his back, hair awry. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and can’t help smiling.

When he gets back into bed, Arthur opens his eyes and smiles and rolls to put his head on Eames’ shoulder. He lies awake a while with Arthur’s hair tickling his nose.

And wakes up when Arthur yawns and stretches and rolls over and kisses him. He wouldn’t have imagined Arthur could be so demonstrative.

“We did that,” says Arthur.

“We did.” He knows he’s smiling idiotically, but then, so is Arthur.

He gets up, reluctantly, but needing a cup of tea. “You want coffee?”

“Yeah. Will my clothes be dry?”

“I completely forgot to start the machine. And I don’t have a dryer anyway.”

“Guess I’ll have to wear yours after all,” says Arthur. Eames has been pulling on clothes as they talk, Arthur watching openly. The clothes he took out last night have been kicked to the floor. He hands them to Arthur and goes to switch on the kettle. 

Arthur comes to the kitchen door. “It’s a good thing you wear your t-shirts tight, or this would be even bigger on me,” he says, pushing his hands through his unruly hair.

“Tight, eh?”

“Yeah, nice and tight.” Arthur yawns and leans against the counter, apparently unaware of the effect he’s having on Eames’ heart.

*

“How much more do you need to do on the dreamspace before we can test it?” says Eames, draining the last of his second mug of tea.

“Not much, should be ready this afternoon. If I go and start now.”

“Okay. I’m just going to go pick up some things at the supermarket. Need anything?”

“A toothbrush?” says Arthur. “I’ll go back to the hotel later.” He stands and picks up Eames’ mug and both their plates.

_Does he mean he’ll go and get his things, or go and stay there?_

It’s drizzling a chilly rain and he walks briskly to the supermarket. He chooses a red toothbrush. His own current one is blue.

Arthur steps out of the study as Eames comes up the stairs, and walks into him, slipping his arms round Eames’ waist. Eames drops the bags so he can reciprocate. 

“You’re cold,” says Arthur. 

“And damp,” says Eames, but Arthur doesn’t step back.

“I think it’s ready to test.”

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

“We have to do something, or Fielding will want his cash back, and I don’t want to give it back,” says Arthur, kissing him and stepping away. He crouches down and roots in the bags until he finds the toothbrush. “Thank god,” he says, going into the bathroom. Eames hears him cleaning his teeth and the clink as the toothbrush is dropped in the mug alongside his. It’s his home, but it feels like Arthur is in control and Eames is just waiting to see what happens next.

He goes into the kitchen to put the groceries away and take Arthur’s clothes out of the machine. He hangs the damp things over the banister and the radiators. It’ll be hours before they’re dry.

“Guess I won’t be going anywhere today,” Arthur says as he comes back into the kitchen. “We can go under now, then.”

“Alright.”

Arthur puts five minutes on the timer. “It’s such a small place, an hour should be long enough.”

Eames has inserted his own line; it hurt less than before, he’s getting better at it.

———

They’re on the landing outside Lisiewicz’s flat. The carpet is the right shade of stained grey.

“Is the door right?” says Arthur.

“Not sure, I might have to go back and check the details. There’s a gas meter on the wall. I’ll draw it for you.”

Arthur opens the door. The hallway is as Eames described it in his notes. Through the door, the kitchen is a bit off somehow in a way he can’t quite recall.

“It would be better if I could take pictures or something.”

“We need to lure him out, then case the joint,” says Arthur.

“‘Case the joint’?”

“Yes, what else are we doing?”

“You sound like a film noir, that’s all.”

Arthur laughs. 

They move into the sitting room. The filing cabinet is in the right place, one of the drawers slightly ajar. “My idea is that he’ll naturally put his secrets in there, and then we just have to take out the file.”

“His desk was really messy, maybe he’ll just leave them among all his other papers.”

“We should just gather up everything.”

“We have to read it and remember it in the dream, don’t we? Can’t bring documents out.”

“No, of course not. But I think Somnacin gives you stronger recall of what you read in a dream. Like that Italian newspaper? I was reading an article about the Vatican bank. I’ll tell you about it topside.”

Eames goes over to the desk. It’s empty of papers. “So he’ll put the papers and clutter there himself?”

“Yes, he should populate the dream with ideas and projections of his subconscious. You remember.”

“Not that we ever had this sort of dream then.”

“It’s a first time for both of us.”

In Lisiewicz’s bedroom he realises he can remember a small chest next to the bed with a drawer and tells Arthur so he can add it in. 

“Might he leave something in the pocket of a pair of trousers, do you think? He had a lot of clothes all over the chair.”

“He might. It’s going to be quite tricky distracting him enough to search the place.” 

“Can’t you build a maze, or one of your staircases to get him lost in?”

“I could try. I’d like to try.” 

———

Arthur wakes up grinning. “Fuck, this is going to be fun!”

“I’m starting to think I might need to try the forging thing,” says Eames, loathe to miss out on trying new ideas. “Because he’s met me, so wouldn’t he be suspicious if the gas man suddenly pitches up in his flat again?”

“You’re right. And you don’t have to be someone he knows, just not yourself, so that would be easier, don’t you think?” 

He seems more like the Andy from the early days in Cambridge, when they sat up late at night speculating, than the older and wiser and worldlier Arthur. But whoever he seems like, Eames wants him, and he wants Eames. He seizes Arthur’s wrist and takes out the line, pressing his thumb over the dot of blood, and then bringing Arthur’s hand up to his mouth, sucking at the needle hole, watching for his reaction. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t pull away.

His clothes won’t be dry today, so they have no alternative but to stay in. Arthur works on improving his design while Eames potters in the kitchen making dinner. 

“Do you want to test it again today?” says Eames while they eat.

“We could just go quickly after dinner, I guess.” 

“There won’t be ill effects from doing it too often?”

“Shouldn’t be. We used it all the time at Cambridge, remember, and I used to dream almost every day when I was trying things at James’ place.”

“Sounds a bit lonely.”

“Yeah, well …”Arthur lets his voice trail off. Then he smiles. “Not anymore,” he says, leaning over and kissing Eames quickly.

———

Lisiewicz’s flat is subtly different from how it looked before, with more details feeling right. He’ll have to go back and check a few things, though.

But the most startling thing is the never-ending staircase that descends from the landing, down and down and down, returning to the start and still descending. 

“Pretty good, huh?” says Arthur, blushing slightly.

———

It’s still early. As they pack the PASIV, their hands brushing, their shoulders bumping, he says: “What do you want to do now?” 

Arthur turns towards him, dragging his hand down Eames’ chest, and back up; placing both his hands on his shoulders and pressing Eames into the sofa, straddling him. “This.”

They move to the bed after a while. Third and fourth times are always better than first times.

***

Arthur’s clothes are dry in the morning. Eames folds them and puts them on the foot of the bed while Arthur’s in the shower. Arthur comes through to the kitchen dressed in his own things.

“I guess I’ll go back to the hotel this morning,” he says.

“And come back here?” Eames isn’t sure.

“Yes. If that’s okay?”

“Okay? Thank god,” says Eames, and Arthur’s answering smile is as wide as his own. “Want me to come help you with your bags?”

“I only have one.”

“One bag is all you have in the world?”

“And a suit bag.”

After breakfast, he kisses Eames and goes down the stairs, the spare keys in his pocket. He looks up from the bottom. “See you,” he says.

*

Eames is washing dishes, having stripped the bed, when Arthur returns, with a big suitcase and a suit bag. “I took a cab,” he says. He puts his things down in the bedroom and returns with a small fabric roll in his hand. “I think these will be handy to check the flat,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Lock picks.”

“Is there no end to your talents?”

“Well, I had quite a bit of time on my hands,” he says, and laughs.

They take the bus to Ealing. There’s no answer when they ring Lisiewicz’s bell. Arthur presses buzzers until someone answers and lets them in and they climb to the top. Eames watches the stairs while Arthur bends to the lock; after about five minutes the door opens. 

“I’m impressed, Arthur.” Eames crowds up against him and Arthur turns and they kiss in the doorway.

Inside, Arthur pulls a small camera out of his pocket and they snap pictures of everything. The kitchen cupboards are pale blue, not white, as Eames remembered them. The small chest in the bedroom with the locked drawer is as he recalled it though. They’re only in the flat for about ten minutes, foolishly risking being caught if Lisiewicz comes back. As they step back onto the street, a car pulls up about six doors down and Lisiewicz gets out. Eames turns quickly so he isn’t recognised and they walk away. “Damn, that was too close!” he says when they’ve rounded the corner. Arthur’s grinning, triumphant. 

Back at Eames’ flat he goes straight to the study to tweak the design, using the pictures for reference. Eames thinks of forging; he may as well use Frank again — Lisiewicz won’t recognize him, and he doesn’t have to be perfect. 

Arthur steps out of the study stretching a few hours later. “I think it might be ready now,” he says. “Want to go and see?”

They go down the hall and sit together on the sofa, each inserting their own line. Arthur sets the timer for five minutes. It all feels like old habit. He takes Arthur’s hand as they settle back. 

———

The flat is perfect now. Eames goes into the bathroom to use the mirror there for his forge. It’s easier than it was the first time to slip into Frank. Still, it takes about half an hour before he steps out to where Arthur is sitting on the sofa looking bored.

“Shit that’s good,” he says when he looks up and sees Eames-as-Frank, with his drooping eye and his baggy pants. “Weird, but good.”

Eames smiles, revealing that he has kept his own teeth again. Arthur runs his tongue along his own teeth, sort of unconsciously. Eames files the hint away. 

“I know it’s weird, but I want to see how long I can hold onto it, how hard it is. Can we do something to pass the time?”

“Sure.” Arthur pulls a pack of cards from his pocket. “Want to play cards?”

“Poker? I thought you couldn’t play.”

“I can’t. You can teach me another day. Let’s just play gin rummy.” 

So they sit at the desk and play cards. Eames can feel the forge wanting to slip when he gets too absorbed, but he tugs his attention back easily enough. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. 

———

They open their eyes in his sitting room without having been aware of the dream ending. Arthur plucks out his line and surges forward to kiss Eames, running his tongue along his teeth. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Not as wiped out as the first time, thank god.”

“Still really, really weird for me. Weirder now, I think.” Arthur blushes. 

“Oh yes? I wonder if I could do a woman?”

Arthur frowns, and blushes harder.

“How would you like that, d’you think?”

“I wouldn’t want to kiss you.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t think so. Never have.”

“Never, not even at school? I assume there were girls at your school?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to kiss them, though. Always boys.”

“There weren’t any girls at my school. I kissed them in the holidays.”

“And now?”

“Mostly men. Not only men.”

Arthur gives him a considering look. Then he leans forward to pack away the PASIV.

It’s getting late, and although he said the forge wasn’t as exhausting as the first time, he’s suddenly tired.

“Come to bed?”

“You are tired, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” 

They go to bed and Eames falls asleep while Arthur sits reading, his hand, when it’s not turning pages, resting on his shoulder.

***

“Do you think we could do the job today?” says Eames as they eat breakfast. 

“We need the rest of the Somnacin. And don’t you think we need to work out a way to get him and take him under? We can’t just do it by force.”

“Arrive at his door, blag our way in, stick him — job done.”

“‘Blag our way in’?” Arthur laughs. “Really? Do you think that would work?”

“I don’t know, darling—” It’s out before Eames has time to think.

Arthur stares at him. And then he leans across the table and kisses him. Sits back with one eyebrow raised and all his dimples showing. And then he carries on drinking his coffee, leaving Eames blushing and smiling and utterly flummoxed.

When he’s finished, Arthur says: “It might work, though. There’s two of us, and you’re,” he waves his hand at Eames, “maybe we could surprise him, and ‘stick him’.”

“I’m …?”

“You know what I mean. Built, ripped, whatever.”Arthur is blushing now. Eames leans across and kisses him. 

They agree that Arthur will go and pick up the full batch of Somnacin while Eames does a bit more surveillance at Lisiewicz’s place to see if he comes and goes. 

Eames puts on a cap and his most nondescript clothes and they go down to wait for buses. 

Loitering in an Ealing side street on a normal weekday draws him some glances, but he deflects them with his most charming smile, shrugging as if he’s lost. He keeps his head down, because Lisiewicz could easily look out of the window. The car he drove up in the other day, a red BMW, is parked at the kerb. He hangs around for several hours, his feet beginning to hurt, but there’s no movement. His phone rings: Arthur.

“I got the stuff. What happening there?”

“Bugger all. He’s here though, his car’s here.” 

“But he was out the other day, so he doesn’t work from home all the time. He must have to go and make deliveries or something, pick stuff up.”

“Well, we need to find him in, so we should just come back tomorrow and do it.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “See if it works!”

“I’m packing it in,” says Eames. “See you back at the flat?”

“Yes.” There’s something wistful in Arthur’s voice. 

When Eames opens the door to the flat, he can hear the sound of dishes being washed. Arthur, once again with a tea towel as an apron, steps out of the kitchen. Eames’ chest hurts. “There you are,” he says, ridiculously.

Arthur’s hands are dripping. “Hi,” he says, kissing Eames. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just … it’s so domestic. God, darling.”

Arthur frowns. “Shouldn’t I …?”

“No, no, of course, carry on.”

“I know what you mean. When you said ‘the flat’, not ‘my flat’ …”

Eames can only nod, and they stand in the hall together, Arthur’s hands making wet patches on his back.

But when Arthur steps away, he’s all business. “I got a sedative as well. We can knock Lisiewicz out and then set up to dream. He’ll wake up after we’ve left, he’ll never know what happened.”

“That really could work.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow.” Arthur’s not asking, he’s stating. He’s in charge, after all. 

He hasn’t had a game in a while, and with Fielding’s cash, he doesn’t need one, but he sort of wants one all the same, wants to feel himself again, in control, not dangerously lulled into this sense of domesticity with Arthur washing dishes. 

They haven’t talked about what will come next, what they’ll do after this. Doesn’t Arthur want to go back, to wherever he came from? He can travel, doesn’t he want to? And he’s sure Arthur also wants to find out what’s happening with the PASIV that got taken to America. He doesn’t know how much Arthur knows about that, but he’s certain it’s more than he’s let on. Arthur may be acting like he is ready to settle into Eames’ life, but he doesn’t really believe that for an instant. 

They go to bed early, but they don’t sleep early. When he wakes up, Arthur is curved around him, his hand on Eames’ heart.

*

They sit on the upper deck of the bus on the way to Ealing. Eames is wearing a cap and he’s brought sunglasses in the hope that Lisiewicz won’t recognise him straight away. Arthur is carrying the PASIV case. Their plan is a bit half-assed: ring someone else’s bell, go to Lisiewicz’s door, and when he opens, push their way in, hypodermic of sedative at the ready. In the dream, Arthur will distract Lisiewicz while Eames slips into the forge to play a potential customer. They hope he will produce the information Fielding wants while they discuss what ‘Frank’ wants to buy: a part for a vintage Mercedes he’s restoring. Arthur has researched the car model and decided what he should ask for. 

Arthur is bouncing his knee, shaking the case. Eames places his hand on his leg, but he doesn’t say anything. Arthur stills and sends him a glance.

“It’s our stop next,” Eames says, leaning to press the request bell. 

They make their way to the bus door, Arthur staggering slightly against him, unbalanced by the heavy case. “Shall I carry it now?”

“Thanks.”

Eames takes the case and they walk quickly to Lisiewicz’s building. His red BMW is parked down the street. Arthur rings someone else’s bell and they get let in. So far, so simple. They climb the stairs to the top and knock on the door. Inside, Lisiewicz says something in Polish, his tone impatient, but his footsteps approach the door and it opens. Lisiewicz looks at them suspiciously. “What?”

Eames holds up the case. “We’ve brought the samples.”

“What? I not order any samples.”

Eames frowns. “Mr Filip Lisiewicz?”

“Yes …”

“You’re on my list. Mr Green and I have an interesting range to show you.”

Lisiewicz’s eyes narrow. “If you are quick.”

“Of course. You’re busy, we won’t waste your time.”

Lisiewicz opens the door wider and waits for them to step inside. As he closes the door, Eames crowds hims against it with the case and Arthur pulls out the hypodermic, whips off the cap and injects him in the arse, through his pants. Eames holds him up as he starts to sag and together they support him down the hall and sit him on his sofa. Arthur takes the case from Eames and opens it on the coffee table, efficiently filling the chamber and unrolling the lines. He sets the timer for 15 minutes. Lisiewicz’s eyes are drooping and he is clearly not paying attention to them. Arthur takes his hand and pushes up his sleeve, efficiently finding a vein and inserting a cannula, while Eames inserts his own. He leans forward ready to push the button while Arthur does his.

“Okay.” Arthur nods and looks steadily at Eames as he sends them under. 

———

Eames heads straight for the bathroom to start putting on the forge. Arthur has disappeared down the hall. Eames hears him knock and Lisiewicz go to answer. He can’t pay attention to what they are talking about while he concentrates on slipping into character, calling up Frank and watching him emerge. It’s easier than it was last time, vastly easier than the first time; in ten minutes he’s ready. He peeks out of the bathroom. The way is clear, he walks to the front door and steps onto the landing as Arthur and Lisiewicz emerge from the staircase. Lisiewicz looks mildly puzzled. Eames knows the feeling, that dream sense that something’s a bit odd, but you can’t quite put your finger on it, so you just go along with events, no matter how bizarre they get. 

He steps forward: “There you are! I was beginning to think I’d got the wrong place.”

Lisiewicz frowns: “I just went to get mail.” He looks at Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t meet his gaze, and Lisiewicz lets it go. “Mr …?”

“Pinkerton, Frank Pinkerton.” Eames seizes his hand and pumps it. “I hope you have what I’m looking for, last bit to get the old girl looking her best and back on the road. Been a long hunt, I can tell you.” He may look like Frank, but he’s smartly dressed and channelling some sort of Home Counties motor enthusiast. Behind Lisiewicz, Arthur suppresses a smile and raises his eyebrows. “I certainly hope you have it,” says Eames, herding Lisiewicz through his own front door. “It’s these little details that one so wants to get perfect. I’ve tried all the usual places, but no one has one. But then my friend recommended you, told me you have a very wide stock at remarkable prices. Remarkable, he said. Frank, he said, Filip Lisiewicz is your man!”

Lisiewicz looks a little stunned at Eames’ volubility, but he’s preening under the praise a bit. 

“Very wide stock,” he says. “Direct imports.”

“Yes, that’s just it, my friend said, no messing about with middlemen, he said, Filip goes straight to the source!”

They are in the sitting room, and Lisiewicz goes over to the desk under the window, cluttered with papers, and hunts for something. “Where is key?” he mutters to himself. He finally notices the filing cabinet drawer is open a little way, with a key in the lock. “There it is!” he says, stepping over to drag the drawer wide and pull out a file. 

Eames has stepped behind him and sees the drawer is full of files. He can’t imagine how he’s going to distract Lisiewicz long enough to hunt through them for something they don’t even know if they’ll recognise. 

Because he’s listening for it, he hears Arthur quietly searching the bedroom. He turns so he can see the door; Lisiewicz is flipping through the file. Arthur comes in and lifts his hands in an ‘empty’ gesture. He steps back into the hall.

There’s a knock at the door. “What?” says Lisiewicz impatiently. The knocking persists. “Okay, okay.” He looks at Eames. “Sorry. Wait, please?”

“Of course, of course.” Eames waves him off. As soon as he leaves the room, Eames dives into the drawer, checking each file. Right at the back is a file with just one sheet in it. A list of names, phone numbers and addresses. Something tells him this is what they’re looking for. It’s almost too obvious. He reads the list closely, consciously trying to take it in. He’s never done this, Arthur is the one who’s practised. It better work, or they’ll be back doing this in the real world. Simpler, but riskier by far. He’s read the list three times when he hears voices at the door. He slips the file back into position and sits down on the sofa, trying to look bored.

Arthur’s voice: “Well, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”

Lisiewicz comes back in looking irritated, but he doesn’t explain, just picks up his file again and mutters to himself as he hunts through it, flipping pages. 

“Here. Yes, I can get it for you. One hundred pounds. Will get here in four days.”

“Only the best for my dear girl,” says Eames. “And my friend was right, remarkable price. I’ll certainly be back. Fielding charges far more, for the things he can find.” That just slipped out and he hopes he hasn’t fucked up the job.

Lisiewicz laughs. “Fielding!” he says.

Eames slips his hand in a pocket and pulls out what he needs: a business card. “Here’s my number. You’ll ring when it’s here? Pleasure doing business.” He sticks out his hand to shake and starts for the door. The time is almost up.

———

Lisiewicz is still out when he opens his eyes. Arthur is up already, rolling up Lisiewicz’s line and his own. Eames takes out his cannula and hands it to Arthur. “I’ve got to make notes quickly, it was quite a long list.” 

Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out his little black notebook. “Take this. I’ll finish here.”

Eames goes out onto the landing and sits on a step, opening the book, there’s a pen clipped to the cover. He quickly writes down the list of names, numbers and addresses, surprised by how vivid they are. The door closes and he looks round. Arthur is there, PASIV case in hand. “Did you get them down?”

“Think so. Yes, I did.”

“We fucking did it!” Arthur doesn’t raise his voice, starts down the stairs. As they step back out onto the street he turns to face Eames. “We did it! Our first dream heist!” His dark eyes are blazing. Eames feels like laughing. He feels like kissing Arthur, right here on the street. They have to get away, in case Lisiewicz looks out the window, but as soon as they’re round the corner, he stops Arthur with a hand on his arm and steps him back against a garden wall. Arthur’s eyes widen a little as he realises what Eames wants. He sets down the case and brings his hands up to cup Eames’ face and they kiss, heedless of being seen.

Eames’ heart is beating fast as they walk to the bus-stop, and the banal incongruity makes him laugh. Everything makes them laugh, they’re giddy with success.

Back at the flat, Arthur sets the PASIV case down at the top of the stairs and grabs Eames’ hand, tugging him towards the bedroom. As soon as they step through the door he starts undressing. “Do you have condoms?” he says, pushing his trousers down and then sitting on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes. “Where? Here?” He opens the nightstand drawer. Eames is struggling out of his own clothes, as clumsy as Arthur is in his haste; he trips over his trousers going to find the condoms and lube and hand them to Arthur. “Here.”

“Good.” Arthur drops them on the bed and grabs Eames’ shoulders, pushing him down and bending to kiss him. It’s intoxicating. Eames falls back, dragging Arthur on top of himself. Straddling him, Arthur sits up, his cock hard and leaking. Eames folds his hands round Arthur’s hips, the bones sharp points in his palms, his fingers digging in. “Will you fuck me? Like this?” says Arthur, breathless 

It’s very tempting to rush headlong, heedless, into this, carried on the wave of their triumph; but another part of Eames, the part that wanted Arthur for years without even really understanding that he did want him, that part wants this to be langourously slow, to go on and on, drawn out till they can hardly stand the tension. He wants this and he doesn’t know how to tell Arthur it’s what he wants, that he wants to fuck him, so badly, but not like this, really. He’s scared that if he tries to tell Arthur, if he says ‘yes, but slow down’, he might not get the chance again, and he couldn’t bear that. 

“Eames! Look at me! Are you going to fuck me?”

He says the only thing he can say: “Yes. God yes.”

He runs his hands up from Arthur’s hips, across his taut stomach, up over his lean chest, gentling him.

“Eames!” Arthur has lunged for the lube, up on his knees, his thighs flexing, reaching behind himself, already panting and flushed.

“Darling, may I …?” 

“Get a condom.” So Eames has to be content to wait before he’s allowed to really touch Arthur. He does as he’s told, trembling as Arthur reaches for his cock, slicks him, and positions himself to sink down on Eames, biting his lip. His eyes tighten. “Fuck! Fuck Eames, fuck, fuck,” he chants.

Eames tries to give him time to adjust, but it’s overwhelming. Arthur is so tight, and more than that, it’s Arthur. It’s _Arthur_. He’s arching up to meet him as Arthur rides him, head thrown back, eyes wild, triumphant, his hands gripping Eames’ thighs, leaving bruises, thank god. It takes him slightly out of the moment, stopping him from coming too soon.

“God, Eames, fuck … I want … I need ...”

He reaches for Arthur’s leaking cock, strokes him firmly. Arthur’s panting ratchets higher in pitch as Eames sweeps his thumb over the slit, slicking his grip. And then Arthur is coming, clenching impossibly tighter. He transfers his weight to Eames’ shoulders and leans down and presses his mouth to Eames’. It’s not really a kiss, Arthur is just panting into his mouth, his damp hair in Eames’ eyes.

Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s waist to flip them over, to take back some control, but it’s awkward, he slips out of Arthur as he does so.

“Eames!” Arthur almost wails, spreading his thighs, begging him to return, and it’s easier now, and Arthur’s face is almost slack with pleasure as Eames comes too, all thought banished. He catches his weight on his elbows as he falls forward over Arthur, both their breaths loud, their chests heaving together. 

“Fuck.” Arthur sounds oddly matter-of-fact, and Eames is surprised into a laugh. He raises himself back up, slipping out of Arthur again. Arthur lifts a hand and runs the back of his fingers down Eames’ cheek and across his mouth. He’s languid now, his eyes hooded, his movements slow. Eames climbs off the bed and walks on shaky legs to the bathroom.

He brings a damp washcloth and wipes Arthur, who is drifting on the edge of sleep. 

It’s not even dark outside.

*

It is dark when Eames wakes, thirsty and disoriented. Arthur is sleeping on his stomach, passed out, but he stirs when Eames comes back into the room with a glass of water, and gets up on one elbow to drink it in greedy gulps.

Eames lies down to sleep again, but he’s wide awake next to Arthur, distracted by the curve of his arse outlined in the little bit of light coming through the window. He runs his hand down the sweep of Arthur’s back, from shoulder to thigh. Arthur murmurs as he does it again, and again. All the aching slowness he wanted earlier, now Arthur is sated. 

Until he feels intrusive, and turns over to wait for sleep that probably won’t come. He can’t leave Arthur to wake alone and wonder why Eames isn’t there, so he listens to Arthur’s soft breaths and thinks about how his life has changed — almost entirely! — in mere days. 

He can’t imagine what will come next. Surely Arthur will want to go back to the States now he can, now he’s satisfied himself that the PASIV can be gainfully used. Will he want Eames with him? Will he want to come and go from Eames’ home, from his life? Will their quasi-domesticity of these last days spook him, or is that what he actually wants? What he had with Fanshawe, although he says their relationship was never like that?

Eames knows what he wants. _Arthur_. The rest is detail, unimportant. He’s made a life here, but he’d leave it in an instant if Arthur asked. He refuses to listen to the voice in the back of his mind that says he’s an adult, that it’s foolish to consider throwing his lot and his life in with a man who could have found him earlier and did not, who only came now because he needed Eames’ skills. Even if he does also want Eames’ body. 

They’ve fallen into this without discussing it. Does Arthur realise he’s been pining, without really knowing it, for years? Has Arthur been pining too, or is Eames just conveniently there, now that he’s no longer repressing himself in Fanshawe’s retreat? Hell, he’s not even sure he really has been, despite what his prickly reaction to Eames’ clumsy joke implied. 

He needs Arthur to wake up and tell him the answers to his questions. Finally, after what feels like hours, Arthur does. 

“Whassatime? Eames? You awake? Fuck, I’m hungry. I’m starving. Eames?”

“I’m awake.”

“Good. Aren’t you starving?”

So they get up and have a midnight feast of sandwiches with everything possible from the fridge. Arthur kisses mayonnaise from Eames’ mouth. They discuss getting the rest of the money from Fielding.

But they don’t talk about the thing they need to talk about. 

***

Eames phones Fielding in the morning and they go together to deliver the list. He seems underwhelmed and truculent.

“Thought he had some special inside info! Secret contacts! Bloody hell, bit expensive, isn’t it?”

“You agreed: twenty thousand for his suppliers. That’s a list of his suppliers.”

“I don’t keep that kind of cash on hand, I told you that before.”

“We warned you we were coming,” says Arthur, crisply. “so we’ll take our payment now.”

Fielding unlocks his safe with ill grace. Arthur glances into the envelope, and puts it in his bag. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

Fielding scowls, but he shakes Eames’ proffered hand. Arthur doesn’t offer his.

“Fuck.” Arthur spits it out, when they’re back on the street.

“What?”

“He was supposed to start our glorious career in dream crime. He’s not likely to recommend us to anyone if he feels ripped off.” 

“Give him time,” says Eames. “He’s the kind of guy who will never tell you he’s happy.”

Arthur wants to celebrate, and of course Eames does as well. They’ve got a huge envelope of cash, and more at home.

“Let’s go to the fanciest restaurant we can,” says Arthur. So they get dressed up, and go out. They drink too much and Arthur looks gorgeous in the candlelight and he laughs and laughs and flirts with Eames as if they aren’t already sleeping together. 

Eames thinks he would rather have ordered a curry and actually talked. 

They’re too pissed to do anything other than fall into bed when they get home.

***

“Are you going back to the States now?” Eames doesn’t want to hear if the answer is yes, but putting it off won’t make it any easier.

Arthur looks at him, frowning. “No. Why would I?”

“You wanted to try out if we could do this first. We did. I thought—”

“Well, yes. Sometime. Not _now_.”

“Oh. Alright. Good.” He smiles, but Arthur’s still frowning.

“What do you think we’re doing here?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I know what I want, but not what you want.”

“Can we keep doing it? I want that.”

“All of it?”

Arthur’s mouth tightens and his shoulders tense, minutely. “This, can we keep doing this.” He waves his hand round the bedroom; they’re sitting in bed with coffee.

Eames bites back the desire to push Arthur for specificity. And the desire to tell him the specificity of what he wants. “Yes,” he says, “we can keep doing this.” It’s not everything he wants. 

The day feels oddly formless, now they’re not tweaking the PASIV or building a space. He tries and fails to settle to the reading that would have absorbed him before. There’s a regular game he could go to, not that he needs the money. He does need the distraction though, so he decides to go anyway. When he gets back, a neat wad of notes in his pocket, he watches Arthur quietly, dawn light falling through the window onto his sleeping face. He almost can’t breathe past the mix of emotions. 

He showers and slips into bed, and Arthur turns over sleepily. “Hello,” he says. “You’re back.” And falls asleep again, his breath gusting softly in Eames’ face. 

They go on quietly for a few days, cooking or eating at the Japanese place, he reading, Arthur doing whatever he does online. 

His phone ringing is a surprise. So is the caller. Fielding.

“I’ve a friend,” he says. “Needs intel. What you did for me.”

“Fielding,” Eames mouths to Arthur, raising his eyebrows.

Arthur comes over to listen to Fielding’s booming, unmodulated voice. 

“Different business. Poker player.”

“Yes?” says Eames. “Can you give me his number?”

They go to meet the man, Brannigan. A pleasanter version of Fielding, less self-satisfied. His needs are similar, information on a rival’s business methods. The job is easier. 

Eames forges Frank again, more for practice than from necessity. He finds he can slip into the role with less and less effort. He’ll have to try someone new soon. A woman? The idea has been tugging at him since he rather gracelessly suggested it to Arthur, probing his desires. 

The payout is good, and the job leads to another, and so on and before they stop to think months have passed and Eames hasn’t played cards in weeks. 

He and Arthur have fallen into a rhythm with each other, domestically, sexually. Learned each other’s habits, likes, dislikes: Arthur can’t cook; insists on ironing most of his clothing; squirms and sighs when Eames kisses his way up the inside of his thighs, scratching lightly with a day or two’s stubble; throws his head back and says, emphatically, calmly, “YES. Fuck. Yes,” when Eames folds him almost double and fucks him; gets an intent look when he fucks Eames, slowly, slowly, never looking away from his eyes. 

***

“You need papers, a passport, don’t you?”

Eames looks up from the book he’s reading.

“What?”

“You need a new passport. _Eames_ needs a passport.”

“I suppose. I haven’t needed one, but it is a bit stupid, being stuck here. How did you get yours?”

“Laid enough background, got one made.”

“Made?”

“Forged.”

“Fuck, Arthur. You and Fanshawe were living the life of international criminals, weren’t you?”

“Not James. He had no idea.”

“Where did you find someone to forge you a passport?”

“I’m very good at research. I’m _fucking_ good at research.”

Arthur gets up and comes to straddle Eames’ lap. “How good am I?” He bites at Eames’ mouth. 

“Fucking good.” Eames’ voice is muffled.

“You are too. You’re a forger.”

“Not like that.”

“I’ve seen your notebooks. The doodles in the margins of your journals. You could do this too, you know. _Fuck_! We’d be unstoppable!”

Eames tries, he practises, he gets very good. Not good enough for a passport. Arthur alerts his dark contact and within weeks Eames has a passport. He can travel. They can travel. If Arthur will have him along for the ride.

Eames has also been practising his other forgery. They go often to Arthur’s Italian village. While Arthur sips an espresso and reads the paper, Eames uses his mirror to put on a woman. No one special, just a woman he sees at the gym. Red hair, green eyes, curvy. The first time Arthur sees her he walks round her to see her from all angles. Her smile seems to unsettle him the most. Her teeth are straight. 

“I can’t see you,” he says. “I could see, before. In Frank. Your teeth. You didn’t keep your teeth this time.” He sounds properly sad about it.

“I know what her teeth look like, darling. Besides, she doesn’t need my stupid wonky British teeth.”

Arthur frowns and looks away. The next time Eames forges her, he leaves the teeth. Arthur returns his smile.


	4. 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are things in this chapter, some violence, and one sex scene, that some readers may like to be forewarned of. In order not to spoil, I have put some warnings in an end note.

They’ve travelled all over the world, stealing from the dreams of others. They’ve tracked down the other PASIVs, and the dreamers who operate them. They’ve learned the secrets of Somnacin. Is there anything they cannot do?

And yet Eames is not satisfied. The dreams he has always wanted, the dreams that could let a person reach something they needed to know, could open windows in their mind, could help _them_ , and not just some rival looking to get ahead, those dreams have remained beyond their grasp. Or beyond their imaginations. Beyond Arthur’s imagination, or his ambition. 

They’ve lived in many countries, in comfort, and glamour, and sometimes in squalour. He knows what Arthur looks like in ecstasy and in agony, in sleep and in action. He has heard Arthur’s secrets, and told his own. Not all, just as he knows he has not been told all — but enough, enough. 

And yet Arthur will not consider it. 

“We meddle in fake dreams for sensible reasons, we shouldn’t meddle in real ones.”

“But you know that’s what I what. What I’ve always wanted to do with it. You didn’t disapprove of the idea before.”

“Before we saw what it is good for.”

“Stealing paltry secrets for the Fieldings of the world? Don’t you want to do something better with it?”

“And fuck up someone’s mind? Hell no. I want to keep doing what we are awesomely fucking good at. What we get paid a ridiculous amount of money to do.” Arthur slams the door as he leaves the room. He doesn’t return for hours.

“I’m sorry,” he says, crawling into bed, his hair smelling of smoke and his breath of whisky. “It scares me, what you want. I’m not like you, Eames, you know that.”

***

They meet Caroline in Monaco, in a villa up behind the Casino. The terrace where she receives them overlooks the harbour, faintly on the breeze, the musical, monotonous sound of rigging tapping against a thousand yacht masts. She is small and elegant, her eyes tired. 

In three years, he and Arthur have acquired a polish they didn’t have in London. Arthur has acquired a wardrobe of fine suits. They can fit in anywhere they choose. 

“How do you need us to assist you?” asks Eames.

“You can … find secrets?”

“We extract information.” Her eyes widen. “There is no harm to the secret holder, no violence, no coercion.”

Her question is the question that has been asked everywhere and in every time since the world began: “Is he faithful?” Eames sighs inwardly — are they ever? 

It’s laughably, boringly simple. Squalidly easy. Eames uses one of his many women: less elegant than the cheated-on wife, blonde to her dark, her clothes revealing, suggestive. Eames feels sorry for Caroline and for the unseen mistress, because of course there’s a mistress as well. In a drawer in the hotel room that he takes the man to, is a photograph of her: young, blonde, entirely unremarkable. 

Caroline is unsurprised, of course. She already knew the answer when she asked the question, hardly needed them to confirm it. 

“I wish I could hate him. How can I leave while I still love him?”

In their hotel room, Eames, lying on the bed while Arthur undresses, muses, his eyes following Arthur’s deliberate actions, as they are supposed to. 

“Could we steal her memories? Take them away as if they had never been?”

“But that’s not what she wants. She wants to hate him.”

“She wants an emotion she doesn’t yet have. Could we give it to her?”

“If she doesn’t already hate him for what he has done to her, what could we do?”

Eames sighs, watching Arthur step out of his trousers. He’s right, but he didn’t reject the idea, just pointed out the limitations. Not Caroline then; someone else, perhaps. 

***

They sometimes work with others when a job is too complex for them alone. Dreamshare has grown a small community: ex-army and the academic types who picked it up when it leaked out beyond the confines of the military. They’ve worked with most of them. They’re known as the pioneers, Arthur held in awe as the man closest to the source, Eames as the first and best forger. 

A bigger team means tedious logistics though: a workspace, schedules, assigned roles. Eames hates it, so Arthur takes charge, handles the bullshit and the egos. No one questions Arthur when he lays out the plan crisply, looking up from the Moleskine he has it all noted in, in his neat block capitals. Eames catches his eye as he looks round the circle, raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips round the pen he’s biting on, trying to make him blush; Arthur shakes his head and frowns, but he smiles a tiny half-smile as he looks away. Later, when they’re alone, he backs Eames against the door and bites at his mouth fiercely, tenderly. “Fucker,” he says, his voice fond.

They never stay in the same hotel as the rest of the team. Arthur doesn’t want to run into them in the elevator, where he likes Eames to lay a possessive hand on the small of his back while he keeps his eyes forward, leaning into the pressure but not catching his eye, all the better if there are strangers present.

When there’s a bigger group, Arthur prefers to hang back, give the designing and extracting roles to others, handle all the planning and research (“The things I don’t want fucked up”) himself. It’s a good system, and they’ve worked with and assessed all the available talent.

For this job, Arthur has gathered what he considers the top available team: Petrus, the best extractor, other than himself, and Mallorie Miles, whose professor father has done so much to refine and expand the understanding of dream architecture. With Eames to forge if needed and himself keeping control, ‘running point’ as the military had it, they are unstoppable.

Macau. Glittering Vegas of the East. It’s a high-risk job, but the payout is massive, and it could expand their reach and reputation. The brief: uncover how a particular high-roller is beating the house in every casino on the strip, a different one each night. The casinos, usually bitter rivals, are collaborating in hopes of taking down the man who is single-handedly costing them millions. Their own security has been unable so far to spot any telltale signs of his methods. Even a honeytrap has proved ineffective — he was immune to the charms of the sophisticated woman hired to seduce him. It is not clear if they haven’t tried a man out of their own biases, or have assessed it would be pointless.

Arthur will do his own research, of course — he would never trust a client’s. Eames will handle surveillance. They will, as always, discuss what they learn before sharing it with the rest of the team. No one has ever complained about the closeness of their two-person operation. Most are grateful to be noticed and hired by the legends. Arthur has found them an office in a tower near but not too near the casinos. They come and go dressed to blend in, Arthur in tropical weight wool suits; Mallorie with Parisian chic. Arthur narrows his eyes slightly at Eames’ bolder choices, but he cannot deny he fits in, in another way. Petrus is unremarkable in every way, which is actually an advantage in an extractor. A bland man is unmemorable, the mark will never spot him in a crowd later and begin to recall. 

The mark himself is not a memorable man: average height, forgettable glasses, slightly rounded shoulders from sitting too long at gaming tables. He doesn’t appear to have a preferred game, winning one night at blackjack, the next at poker, a third at the roulette wheel. If he is counting cards, he is immensely subtle and fond of risk. 

Eames has not played poker seriously in a long while, but he buys himself into a game with the mark, Peter Broadbent. He sits opposite him and watches carefully for his tells. Broadbent is good, very good, at suppressing them, but Eames is even better at noticing. Broadbent bites the inside of his lip, the minutest of signals. Eames has not lost his touch. Broadbent does not take losing well. 

Arthur is angry with him.

He can’t deny that he let his certainty of his own skill, and a weird sort of longing for his old life, his life before Arthur, before dreamshare, cloud his judgment. Petrus takes over tailing Broadbent, while Eames watches from the security room at tonight’s casino, observing via the cameras in the ceiling as he sits at the roulette table — and loses. Has he realised he’s under observation? He must surely be aware.

The casino bosses are almost ready to let it go. Wait him out, let him leave. Without evidence of how he wins, they can’t all ban him outright. And he is clever, a few more nights of indifferent results, and it almost seems like a lucky streak, no more.

But Arthur has uncovered some intriguing details in his deep research. Or rather, lack of details. The man is almost a blank slate. Although Broadbent is Australian, he has been based in Hong Kong and China for decades. Hasn’t returned home, even for his father’s funeral. He doesn’t appear to have any intimate ties, no wife, no lover — not even any discernible employer. He has no family remaining in the small country town where he grew up, or anywhere else, it seems. How can a person leave such a very light trail through life, unless it has been deliberately scrubbed?

“Is the gambling covering another job completely?” asks Petrus. 

“But why draw attention by winning too much?”

“Perhaps he’s just on some downtime between jobs—”

“Is he James Bond, you mean?’ says Eames. 

“If he is, we should step away,” says Arthur, decisively. “We can’t get caught between him and whatever he’s up to.”

Arthur is right, of course he is. But Eames doesn’t want to step away. Wants to stay on this train and see where it goes, where it takes them. He is, he finally admits to himself, bored with their lives, the theft of petty secrets hardly worth hiding. And bored with the rootlessness of their peripatetic wanderings. He is not bored with Arthur, cannot imagine being, but something has to change. 

In their hotel room he stands at the window, a wall of glass beyond which the glittering city stretches, and waits for Arthur to emerge from the bathroom. He watches him approach, reflected in the black mirror, naked, narrow hipped, cock hard already, his hair damp and curling, his eyes intent on Eames’, his mouth a firm line. He stops behind Eames, hidden now behind the bulk of his body. His hands slide around Eames’ waist, and up over his chest. This close, it is easy to discern his expression, the sadness in his eyes. 

“Why won’t you walk away, Eames?”

He hadn’t even expressed this as they discussed it earlier, but Arthur knows his tells, he never could hide from him. 

“Ah, darling, I don’t even need to say and you know.”

Arthur drops his mouth to the nape of Eames neck and bites softly, just at his hairline. “I know some of it.”

“Aren’t you sick of it? Thieving? Wandering?”

“I’m not, yet. I never thought this would be my life, but I’m not bored, never with you.” Arthur steps even closer, his nakedness brushing up against Eames’ clothes; he tips his hips forward and drops his hands lower, begins unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his old-fashioned flies. He steps out from behind Eames and turns his back to the window’s mirror, his perfect arse reflected now, his long back, his shoulders flexing as he pulls Eames’ shirt off over his head. He kneels to take off his shoes, to lift his feet out of his pooled trousers — intent, silent. He tosses the clothes away, and tips his head back to look up at Eames, before dropping his face to his groin, his mouth open, his hot breath dampening the cotton of Eames’ briefs before he pulls them down; Eames balances with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he kicks them off. 

He looks down at Arthur’s bent head and at his reflected back and arse, his long bare feet. They’re not overlooked and their room is high up, but even so, this is more daring than Arthur often is, without the adrenaline kick of a just completed job. 

“You know I’m not bored with you, either?” Eames says later, as they lie in bed. 

“But you are bored with our life. And don’t you want a woman, sometimes? I see how you look at Mal.”

“Where is this coming from, Arthur? Sure, Mal’s a beautiful woman, but I don’t _want_ her. I’m with you. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Not now, maybe.” Arthur turns over and pulls the sheet up, clicks the light off, ending the argument before Eames can respond properly.

He lies awake in the dark, listening to Arthur’s breathing, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He just wants this job to be over, now.

***

Mal also thinks they should at least try to take Broadbent under, maybe earn their promised fee. 

“Nah, I’m out,” says Petrus. “James Bond’s too dangerous for me. This is triad territory. It’s not worth it.”

Arthur would never let anyone do a job without his protection if he got them into it. 

There’s nothing more to glean from surveillance. Mal has built a casino. It’s an easy place to make a maze to confuse a mark and lose angry projections — mirrors everywhere, jangling machines, it almost doesn’t need the tricks of paradoxical architecture. Broadbent has never seen Arthur, he will be a poker dealer, Eames will play. Mal will remain topside in the hotel room with their sleeping selves. They have to go with their old “overwhelm him and stick him” trick. Eames will go in first. If Broadbent is who they suspect, he’ll be disoriented by him, having seen him before. And Eames has the bulk. 

“I fucking hate this,” says Arthur in the elevator to their hotel room. They’ll do the job in the morning. 

“I know you do. So do I. It’s a pointless job. But we committed. Mal needs the money, I think.”

“Yeah, she does.” Arthur sighs. “You don’t even want to do these kinds of jobs, and you’re the one pushing forward.”

Eames has his hand on the small of Arthur’s back. “One last one? I don’t know. If we get this payout can we stop? For a while?”

Arthur turns to him. “Yes. We’ll stop. We’ll go anywhere you want and just be.”

Eames can hardly breathe from emotion. 

***

If only they’d listened to Petrus. If only Eames had listened to himself. If only Arthur had listened to _himself_. If only.

If only they had probed more deeply into Broadbent’s obvious double life, once they’d realised there was a hidden side to him. If only they had taken Petrus’ triad warning seriously. If only Mal had not needed the money. If only.

If only the job had been as small as Eames feared. 

***

The job goes as planned, initially. Arthur and Eames knock on Broadbent’s door, and push past him when he answers, in the moment while he’s obviously trying to place Eames. Arthur has the sedative ready, plunges the hypodermic into his thigh in a well-practised move while Eames has him in a lock. Broadbent may be an agent, but he’s not muscle, has no answer to Eames’ bulk and certainty. They walk him over to the sofa and Mal enters the suite with the PASIV. Broadbent’s eyes follow their movements, but unfocused, hazy. Mal opens the case on the coffee table and unrolls the lines, picks up Broadbent’s arm and efficiently finds a vein. Eames watches Arthur insert his line, then does his own. If they were alone, they’d do each other’s, a reassuring point of contact before whatever is going to happen next. As it is, Eames tries to convey it with a steady look. Arthur gives a sharp nod and sets the dial.

“Let’s do this.”

———

Mal has replicated the casino down to the smell of mixed perfumes, sweat and adrenaline, the garish carpet, the constant jingle of the pachinko machines. 

Eames looks around for Arthur and Broadbent, doesn’t see them at a card table. Finally, he sees Arthur, in the ugly uniform waistcoat of a dealer, his back straight, shoulders rigid — at a craps table. They have practised dealing, but not running a craps game. Then Eames sees why he’s there. Broadbent is at the table. Eames circles round, so he’s behind Broadbent and facing Arthur. 

Arthur looks up, and Eames mouths: “You okay?”

Arthur nods, professional. Eames approaches the table, taking up a position where he can watch both Broadbent and Arthur. 

Broadbent, who has never had a companion in the time they’ve been watching him, has a tiny Chinese woman hanging on his arm. He offers her the dice to blow on before he rolls. So far, so cliché’d. He’s acting out a movie fantasy of a high roller, playing a game they’ve never seen him play. His earlier rejection of the honeytrap must have been self-control, not lack of interest.

Arthur looks remarkably composed as he runs the game. Of course he does, he’s in charge here, as the dreamer. And Eames has rarely seen him rattled in a dream. Nor outside one. He himself does feel somewhat rattled by how quickly this has veered from the script they thought it would follow. He wonders briefly if their mark has encountered shared dreaming before. Who knows what goes on in the crowded backstreets of Hong Kong. Arthur should have known perhaps. But then, this whole job has gone off the rails.

If only they’d listened to their misgivings. 

Broadbent wins, and wins again, and again, flirting with his companion, who giggles and blows on the dice, whispers intimately to him. His hands are all over her, openly roving over her small, high breasts, her pert ass in the tight dress he’s got her in. Acting as he never has and perhaps wouldn’t dare, topside. Eames has been cataloguing his bets, trying to discern a pattern that may give hints to what he is thinking, because even though this is a game he hasn’t played in reality, there must be something about the way Broadbent plays that will give away the way he plays up there.

Eames can’t keep watching much longer without drawing unwanted attention, not least from Broadbent, who doesn’t appear to have registered him yet, as wrapped up in his companion as he is. He buys into the game, and Broadbent glances at him, a flash of semi-recognition crossing his face before he is distracted again by the woman. They should be glad his subconscious is so stereotypical. 

Craps is not a game Eames has much patience with. He prefers the skill and people reading needed to be a good poker player, the challenge of winning just enough, of losing when he needs to, without seeming to do it deliberately. Still, the dice feel good in his hand, hard and certain, the flick of the wrist in throwing them feels clean. He wins his first turn and Broadbent looks at him with more attention, a flicker of greater recognition, even though Eames is dressed as generically as possible. Once again though, his attention is drawn back to the woman when she whispers flirtatiously in his ear, and the game continues. Eames loses the next throw, Broadbent keeps on winning. To stop himself from looking at Arthur, Eames looks at his hands as he places chips and runs the game — neat, precise, so familiar with their long fingers and square nails. It’s better than looking at Broadbent constantly, playing out his nauseating fantasy. 

He’s not looking at Broadbent, but he is following his play, and nothing is becoming obvious. He glances up at Arthur, silently asking if he has noticed anything. Arthur gives a tiny shake of his head. Eames needs to get closer to Broadbent, close enough to overhear him, but he can’t do it with his own face. He cashes out and leaves the table, sauntering away and then going into a toilet to change. It has become something he can do almost at will. He decides to be a petite blonde. The attention of another woman may flatter Broadbent into indiscretions. 

He steps back out onto the casino floor and moves slowly towards the table, circling behind Arthur so that Broadbent can see him as he places his bets. His eyes widen and he glances down at his current companion with a flash of … is it regret? Eames catches and holds his eyes, and licks his lips. He can see Broadbent swallow, and step slightly to the side, making a space next to himself. The Chinese woman frowns briefly, but pastes a smile back in place when Broadbent speaks to her. Eames smiles dazzlingly, gestures towards himself — ‘For me?’ — and sashays round to stand next to Broadbent. 

“Good evening, my dear,” he is greeted. “Have you come to play or watch? Would you like a drink?”

He simpers and asks for a Cosmopolitan. “I’ve never played but it looks such fun! Will you teach me how?”

“Of course, my dear!” Broadbent signals a waiter and orders the drink. “Now, do you have any chips?”

“Yes, my husband gave me some, but he’s busy playing cards.” He pouts prettily. “I thought I would come and watch a more exciting game and perhaps play myself. I don’t want to lose though!” He giggles. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, my dear! I’ve been rather lucky myself tonight, it’s sure to rub off on you, and if it doesn’t …” He gestures at the stack of chips in front of him, “I have plenty to share.”

Eames forces himself to simper again. He places a hand on the man’s arm. “Oh, that’s so kind of you!” 

On Broadbent’s far side his companion is trying not to look too put out, slipping her arm through his. He glances at her, but brings his attention quickly back to this new acolyte. “It will be my pleasure, my dear,” he says smoothly.

Eames’ drink arrives and he sips delicately at it. He has a little handbag with him and he puts it on the table’s edge and extracts a small handful of chips. “It would be such fun to have some of my own to play with tomorrow!” he says. 

Broadbent picks up two chips and places them on the table, then takes up the dice and gives them to Eames. “Now, my dear, throw them so they bounce off the far edge. You want to throw an eleven.”

Eames throws the dice, a little too softly. “Oh, that’s not right is it?” he says, when they come up two and six. He pouts a little as he loses his bet and Arthur rakes his chips away. 

“Now, now, don’t fret,” says Broadbent. “Here, help me.” He holds the dice out to Eames. His hand smells of cigarette smoke. Eames purses his lips and blows on the dice. 

The Chinese woman is scowling and Eames says: “Your friend may give you better luck, though.” 

Broadbent laughs, dismissive. “You see,” he says, throwing the dice with the requisite flick, “it’s all in the wrist.” He leers as he says it and Eames giggles, fighting down his sense of revulsion. It’s completely pointless, the dream is revealing nothing. 

There aren’t enough of them to do this efficiently. Eames will have to go and find the safe Broadbent may have used, leaving Arthur to observe him for anything he may give away. Eames wins one more throw and forces himself to react with disproportionate delight.

“Oh my god!” he exclaims, “this is such fun!” Then he catches sight of his watch. “Oh no! It’s so late! I have to get back, he’ll be finished with his game. I hope he won’t be too cross!” He lays his hand on Broadbent’s arm and looks up at him. “Thank you so much for helping me!” He puts his chips in his handbag, after handing one to Arthur as a tip, and leaves the table, making sure his hips sway as he walks away. 

The secret, when he finds it, is as banal as he feared, but far more dangerous. Broadbent has spent so much time in Hong Kong, he has somehow gotten involved with Chinese triad gang culture. He knows staff in every casino, and although he is a skilled gamer, it is their help that gives him his edge. Just as Petrus said. If only they’d listened. If only he’d listened to Arthur, not Mal, whom he barely knows and has no loyalty to. 

———

He opens his eyes in the hotel room. Broadbent slumbers on, as expected. But Arthur does too. Mal looks at Eames with wide eyes.

“What happened down there? Why won’t he wake up?”

“I don’t know. We split up.”

On the sofa, Arthur twitches and moans. He sounds in pain.

“What the fuck!” Eames’ hands shake as he adds another dose to the PASIV. “Something’s wrong. I’m going back in.” He sets the dial and presses the button before Mal can react.

———

The casino is in chaos: cards, dice and chips scattered everywhere; women screaming and running, some cowering behind pachinko machines; men shouting, some cowering behind pachinko machines. He can’t see Arthur.

“Arthur!” He has entered far from Arthur’s craps table. He pushes his way through the confused crowd to a tighter knot of people gathered around … someone on the ground. Eames shoulders them aside and they fall back, murmuring. 

Arthur lies on the garish carpet, bleeding from a chest wound, dice spilled from his hand, chips scattered. Eames falls to his knees. “Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes flutter open and he looks at Eames without focus. Eames brushes the back of his fingers down his face. “Arthur.”

But Arthur shakes his head and turns it away, grimacing from the pain. The crowd murmurs again and then there is a shout. Angry voices. Eames can’t make out what they’re saying, can’t concentrate enough to decipher the Cantonese, but there’s no mistaking the threat. He stands up, a gun in his hand. The murmuring crowd falls back further and three armed men push past them. Eames fires at the first, who falls, and the crowd scatters. Arthur is behind him. Eames is aware of him, although he is silent. The other two men keep advancing and Eames fires, just as one of them does too. His aim is poor and the gunman shouts in pain from the wound in his shoulder, but keeps coming. Eames is distantly aware of a burn in his own shoulder but he can’t spare the time to think about it. He swings around to fire at the third man, he’s too close to miss and the man goes down. Gunman number two keeps coming at him. He tries to fire again. His gun jams. The man aims and fires and everything goes black.

———

Mal has her hands pressed to her mouth. Arthur is still asleep, and Broadbent is starting to stir. 

“Stick him again! There’s another syringe in Arthur’s pocket.”

Eames’ hands are shaking so much he spills Somnacin as he tries to add another dose, the last of the stock they brought with them. Mal plunges the needle into Broadbent’s shoulder. Eames sets the timer again and presses the button.

———

The casino is empty.

There is a pool of blood soaking the carpet at his feet, disappearing into the red swirls of the pattern. The profound silence is eerie after the previous hubbub. He spins round. There are so many doors! All leading to maze passages. And there is no clue to which one Arthur has been dragged through, none is ajar and there’s no obvious trail of blood. Was Arthur picked up and carried? He knows he needs to calm down and think logically but it’s almost impossible to focus past the adrenaline thumping through his brain. 

“Try each door,” he tells himself, crossing the room. 

“This one?” 

He opens a door. The passage is a blank service space, chilly and dimly lit. Utterly silent. 

“Arthur?”

No answer apart from the echo of his own voice. Of course. He advances down the passage to the first turn. How do you explore an illogical maze logically? He turns back, steps back out into the still-empty casino floor and goes to the next door. 

“This one?” 

The corridor is the same. He advances to the first turn, his footsteps sounding like gunshots in the stillness. 

“Arthur?” 

Only an echo. Back again, next door, next door, and on and on till his voice is hoarse from shouting down cold passages. He has checked every door, but he hasn’t dared to follow any labyrinth. He will have to start again. In the third passage he sees it. A drop of blood on the floor. He walks on. A smear on the wall, then another and another each time the tunnel branches. 

The smears are about at hip height — just where the hand of a man being carried in a fireman’s hold might dangle to. Arthur has marked the way, left a trail for Eames to follow. Of course he has. There aren’t any more drops of blood on the floor. That’s good, isn’t it? He’s not bleeding steadily, the smears are what was already covering his hand. 

“Hold on, Arthur, just hold on. I’m coming for you.” He isn’t sure how much he put on the timer, or how much remains. He can only hope he gets to Arthur before it runs out. The smears are getting fainter, the blood was drying on Arthur’s hand. How much time did he lose when he woke and re-entered? Dream time continued and he has to catch up. 

He peers closely at the dirty white wall, where marks from other passing bodies scuff the surface. 

“Why are you so fucking thorough, Mal?” 

The next branch has no mark that he can see. He stands still and tries to swallow the sound of his own racing breath in hopes there may be some noise to lead him further, if he is close enough. Nothing except the rush of his own blood in his ears. 

Then he hears it. A faint whisper, the merest breath. Humming. Someone is humming a tune; it’s too soft to discern, but it is hope and Eames walks forwards, pulled by the thread. The humming is broken, as if the hummer can’t quite catch his breath. The tunnel branches again. 

Arthur is lying on his side in a pool of blood, crumpled like a broken toy. Humming. Eames falls to his knees. 

“Eames.” Arthur’s voice is almost inaudible. “Shoo’ me.” His eyes tighten. “Shoo’ me out.”

“Oh, darling.” Eames lifts his hand. There’s a gun in it. 

“Eames.”

The shot is terrifyingly loud in the narrow space. Arthur’s eyes go blank. Eames puts the gun to his own temple and squeezes the trigger.

———

“ _Merde!_ ” 

Mal is frantically rolling up tubing and Arthur looks dazed, sitting slumped on the sofa. Broadbent is stirring. Eames pulls the needle from his own hand and shifts towards Arthur.

“Arthur! Are you alright? Talk to me, for God’s sake!” His voice is still hoarse from all the tension and shouting in the dream. Odd that it should carry over like that. “Arthur!”

Arthur turns towards him, but he still looks blank. “It hurt so much, but I couldn’t die and get out. It hurt so much.” Now he’s grimacing at the memory of the pain.

“I know, darling, shh, I know.” He runs the back of his fingers down Arthur’s cheek. Arthur closes his eyes and flinches slightly.

“We must go!” Mal’s voice is sharp with panic. “He’s waking up!” She has their PASIV packed away. “ _Merde!_ ”

“Go!” says Eames, “I have to help Arthur.” He’s not sure if Arthur can walk on his own. He certainly can’t carry him down a hotel hallway without attracting attention, and he doubts he could manage to lift Arthur for long. If he supports him, perhaps Arthur will merely seem drunk to anyone they meet. The door closes behind Mal.

“Arthur? We need to get out of here. I’ll help you walk. I can’t carry you.” He’s standing, Arthur looking up at him as if he has no idea where they are or what is happening. He reaches out his hand and Arthur takes it. His grip is weak. 

“Darling, please stand up now, come on!” He hauls Arthur upright. He staggers and Eames braces him with an arm around his back, the PASIV case awkward in his other hand. “There,” he says, “we can do this.”

Broadbent groans, stirring. His eyes flutter open. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Eames doesn’t respond, just steers Arthur to the door. He grabs the keycard from the slot next to the door and locks Broadbent in to buy time. The hallway is deserted and he walks them as fast as Arthur is able towards the lifts. He hits the call button and waits impatiently while it climbs from the ground floor, Arthur a heavy weight slumped against him. It’s empty, thank god, and he gets Arthur leaning in the corner.

“Why?” says Arthur, but he can’t seem to manage more.

“Why are you still affected? I don’t know, love. Just hang on. We’ll get back to our room and you can rest. You’ll be alright after a sleep.”

“It hurt so much. So long. Then you came.” 

“I just followed your trail.”

Arthur closes his eyes again. 

The lift bell dings and Eames gets his arm round Arthur’s waist again. “Not much longer,” he says, “just across the lobby and into a taxi. You had too much to drink, okay?” Arthur gives a half smile and leans on Eames as they step out into the thankfully quiet lobby. There’s a taxi waiting at the stand and they get back to their hotel easily enough, Arthur slumped against him in the backseat. Eames can feel him trembling. 

When they are back in their room at last, Arthur collapses onto the bed and curls in on himself. 

“Let’s get you undressed, then you can nap,” says Eames, taking off Arthur’s shoes. He lifts him up and takes off his jacket, undoes his tie and his shirt, his belt, his fly. Arthur is heavy, not helping. “Get your trousers off for me?” Arthur shuffles out of them. 

“Don’t you want a pee?” Arthur nods and Eames helps him stand and walk to the bathroom. “You okay on your own?” Arthur nods again. Eames closes the door and goes to turn down the bed. The bathroom door opens and Arthur shuffles towards the bed and lies down again. Eames pulls the blanket up over his shoulder and goes into the bathroom himself. He feels wrecked, but he doesn’t look it, really, just tense. He drinks some water and fills a glass for Arthur. He should check on Mal. All he wants to do is get into bed behind Arthur and watch him sleep. 

He pulls out his phone and calls Mal. “Eames! Is he …? What happened?” Her voice is fraying, sounding more French than usual. 

“He was badly injured in the dream, seems to be affecting him up here somehow. Never seen it before. Are you alright?” Mal is usually briskly confident, but she’s all alone in another hotel.

“ _Oui, oui_ ,” she says. “I’m leaving tonight. Back to Paris. There’s someone there who might be able to help. Come to Paris?”

“Help? Arthur’ll be fine after a nap.” 

They need to leave too, but not with Arthur in his current state. He’s got to meet the casino bosses, tie off the job, such as it is. And all he wants to do is watch over Arthur. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, ending the call. 

Arthur is curled tightly on himself in bed. He mutters as Eames slips in behind him. Eames means to watch over him, but his eyes fall shut. 

His ringing phone wakes him. His contact is annoyed — he missed the meeting. The room is dark, Arthur is still asleep. He glances at his watch, they’ve been out for hours. He’s thirsty, hungry, groggy. Eames slips out of bed. He splashes water on his face and combs a wet hand through his hair. 

He wishes he knew what went wrong to so badly affect Arthur. Was it the prolonged agony alone, or something else? The Somnacin? They were using a new mix. Arthur might have some ideas, when he’s himself again, but when will that be? He goes back into the room, sits on the bed.

“Arthur?” He touches his face, peaceful now. Arthur stirs but doesn’t wake. He strokes his fingers lightly along his jaw. “Arthur? Wake up now?”

Arthur opens his eyes and looks up at Eames. Slowly his expression clears.

“Fuck!” he says. “What the fuck happened? I feel like I was run over by a truck.”

“You got badly injured down there. It carried over. Don’t know why.”

“Yeah. Goddamn, it hurt while he was carrying me like that. I thought I was going to pass out. I just kept marking the turns, marking the turns …” His voice trails off.

“Clever, that.” Arthur smiles hazily. “I kept having to come back for you. We sedated Broadbent again.”

“Those were some mean projections he had,” says Arthur. “Everything seemed fine, and then these guys burst in and started shooting.”

It’s not like they’ve never faced pissed-off projections before, but this was on a new level. Petrus was right.

“I missed the meeting with the casino guys. I have to go soon. Will you be okay for a bit?” 

“Yeah. I’ll sleep more.” Eames stands up, goes to find a clean, unwrinkled shirt. Arthur watches him buttoning it up. “Eames,” he says, “thank you for coming back for me.”

“Of course, darling. I had to come for you.”

“I probably would have woken up eventually.”

“You were moaning. I couldn’t leave you like that.”

“Well, thank you though.”

Eames bends down and brushes a kiss across Arthur’s temple before going to the door. “Go to sleep, Arthur.”

*

The casino bosses’ representative is irritated at Eames, but unsurprised by his report. He wants to know if they’d be up for a follow-up gig to uncover the inside contacts.

“I’m sorry,” says Eames, “we have a job in Vladivostok that starts on Monday.”

“A great pity.” The man shrugs. “But we are satisfied with this job. Your payment will be wired to you in an hour.”

Eames leans back in the cab to the hotel, watching the lights. They can leave tomorrow. Arthur deserves a quiet beach to recover on.

“Well, that’s done. The money will be—” Eames is talking as he enters the room but Arthur is still asleep, tightly curled on himself. 

He rings down to ask the concierge to book them tickets to Bali tomorrow. They’ll find somewhere quiet to stay there, lie low for a while, try to figure out what went wrong. 

As Arthur slumbers on, Eames packs their bags. Finally, he gets into bed himself. Arthur mutters, but he doesn’t wake. Eames falls asleep still baffled by the whole thing.

*

Arthur is sleepy as they check out and take a taxi to the airport. He sleeps throughout the flight, barely waking to disembark. He stands swaying against Eames in the passport queue and as they wait for their bags. He slumps against him as they take a taxi to a beachside guesthouse run by the taxi driver’s sister. When they arrive, he staggers to their room and falls onto the bed.

Now Eames is really alarmed. That Arthur was traumatised by hurting so long in the dream is understandable, but this is something they’ve never encountered. If it was the Somnacin, why isn’t Eames affected? They never felt any ill effects from the test runs. And Eames had three times the doses as he kept going in to find Arthur. If it was the drug, he’d be the one worst affected. Arthur hasn’t said in any great detail what happened to him down there. The answer must lie in that. They’ll get to the bottom of it when Arthur wakes up. 

Their room leads onto a veranda. Eames sits out there for hours, waiting for Arthur, impatient and restless with worry. 

Finally, as the sun is setting, he hears a noise behind him. Arthur shuffles onto the veranda. “Guess I was really tired,” he says, yawning.

“Guess so,” says Eames lightly. He won’t ask Arthur anything tonight.

Arthur looks out across the simple garden to the beach. “It’s nice here,” he says. 

He doesn’t approach Eames; hasn’t, now Eames thinks about it, reciprocated any of Eames’ touches. They haven’t kissed properly since before the dream.

***

The sun is high when Eames wakes, the tension of the job and his worry having finally caught up with him too. Arthur is awake, sitting up in bed reading. “Morning,” he says, shuffling closer to rest his head on Arthur’s thigh. “Not just you who needed sleep.” 

Arthur flinches and gets out of bed. “That was weird, glad I’m finally awake,” he says as he walks to the bathroom.

They go for a swim and walk along the beach and it seems the exhaustion was just a post-job thing.

It’s easy to say the first nap in the hot afternoon, lying sticky under a slowly turning fan, is just a holiday siesta, but Arthur doesn’t wake. “Too tired,” he murmurs when Eames tries to rouse him for dinner. “You go. Not hungry.” And he turns over on the bed. 

He does wake when Eames comes back, stepping silently on the cool tiles of the floor. He watches as Eames undresses and he reaches for him as he gets into bed. 

Eames leans up to kiss him, but Arthur pushes him down roughly and straddles him.

“Fuck!” he says. “Finally. I saw you looking at that woman on the beach! And you’ve been avoiding me.” His fingers are digging painfully into Eames’ shoulders.

“What woman? I was just trying to give you space—”

Arthur cuts him off, his mouth on Eames’, biting. He likes it when Arthur gets rough, but this is beyond teasing. Arthur bites harder and blood floods Eames’ mouth.

“Arthur! Fuck! That hurt!” He pushes at Arthur’s shoulder and he sits back on Eames’ hips.

“You don’t like that? You don’t like it when _I’m_ in control?”

“What’s come over you? You know I do, but that really hurt!” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

“Poor Eames.” Arthur’s voice isn’t tender. He runs his hands down Eames’ chest, tweaking his nipples painfully. Eames gasps at the sensation, and Arthur raises an eyebrow and does it again. “You do like that,” he says, grinding down against his half-hard cock. Eames isn’t enjoying this, but it _is_ Arthur, and he’s starved for Arthur. “I’m going to fuck you now.” His voice is impersonal and he strokes his own cock, red and leaking against his stomach.

Arthur has never been like this, but maybe if Eames accepts it, they can make a real connection again and Arthur will come back from wherever he’s been.

Arthur gets up on his knees, crawling over Eames as he reaches towards the nightstand. “Where’s the bloody lube?”

It’s in the bathroom, with Eames’ shaving things. There hadn’t seemed any point putting it by the bed.

“In the bathroom,” he says, and Arthur swings his leg over Eames, his cock brushing his face. 

Arthur returns holding the bottle and tosses it on the bed. The mattress dips and he pulls Eames’ legs apart, crawls up between them. 

“I’m going to fuck you now, Eames,” he says, reaching for the lube, squeezing a blob into his hand. His fingers are cold as he pushes in roughly. Eames bites his bloody lip and nods. Arthur’s too far away for him to touch, and he doesn’t think he’d be allowed to anyway. Arthur pulls his fingers out and slicks his cock. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says again. He’s not even talking to Eames. 

Eames lifts his hips to meet Arthur. He’s hardly ready but Arthur doesn’t seem to care. He can’t help his pained gasp as Arthur enters him but he keeps silent as Arthur sets up a punishing rhythm, not really looking at Eames, his hands hard on his hips, driving him up the bed till he thinks his head’s going to slam the wall behind.

“Yes! Fuck, yes,” he says as he comes, finally looking at Eames. But he pulls out and gets off the bed, walking to the bathroom. Eames hears the taps running. 

Arthur comes back out and gets into bed and turns on his side, away from Eames.

“I’m tired,” he says.

Eames lies where Arthur left him until he’s too uncomfortable. He gets up, come dripping out of him, and goes to clean up.

He has never felt lonelier.

***

Again Arthur is awake, sitting in the chair by the window, when Eames wakes, aching and feeling filthy. Arthur doesn’t say anything as he gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. He stands under the hot water for a long time. His shoulders and hips are marked with black finger bruises and his lip has scabbed over.

When he comes back out, Arthur is no longer in the room. The doors to the veranda are open; he’s standing looking out at the sea. “I’m going for a walk,” he says. Eames lets him go and sits down, wincing, on the rattan chair. He’s drifting, staring at the waves, when Arthur walks back up from the beach.

“Are you okay?” says Arthur.

“What do you think?” His nasty tone feels wrong, aimed at Arthur. Only this person seems less and less like Arthur with every day that passes.

Arthur looks at Eames, really looks, as he hasn’t done since the dream.

“What do you think happened in Macau?” he says.

“He must have known about dreamshare, somehow trained his subconscious. At first he didn’t seem to care about us, but then after I broke into his safe, he attacked.”

“He enjoyed having women hanging all over him.” Arthur shudders. “We misread him. I misread him.”

Eames takes a breath, he has to ask: “What do you think caused this after-effect?”

“Being so tired?”

That wasn’t all he meant, but he nods.

“Being injured. Maybe? It felt like hours.”

“You couldn’t wake up when the timer ran out.”

“I thought I never would.” He looks sad, not like the awful, angry stranger from last night. It’s the most they’ve spoken since Macau. 

“Mal suggested she knows someone who might have some answers.”

“What could anyone else tell us we don’t already know? We invented this business, practically.”

“Might not hurt to ask, though.”

“Maybe.” Arthur yawns. “I’m going to have a nap.”

Eames wants to say: No! Don’t go to sleep again. Stay here with me. Don’t give in. But he just shrugs.

Arthur sleeps the rest of the day. After hours of staring at branches of purple bougainvillea waving against the heat-bleached sky, Eames gives in and rings Mal.

“ _Bonjour!_ ” she says. “ _Ça va?_ ”

“Bloody weird, to be honest,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “Arthur can hardly stay awake for a few hours at a stretch since Macau. We can’t think of anything it could be. Not the Somnacin, because I’m fine. You said there’s someone there who might have some ideas?”

“ _Oh, mon petit Arthur. Oui_ , there is someone here.” Her voice takes on a somewhat dreamy tone. Oh, it’s like that, is it? “Dominic Cobb. He has studied the effects.”

“Cobb? Why have I never heard of him?”

“He is an academic. Like my papa. American.”

“Well, we’re out of ideas over here. Can I ring him?”

“He is here,” she says. He hears her voice move away from the phone: “Dominic?” The phone gets even more muffled, she’s describing him, Arthur, the job, the problem, whatever.

A new voice on the phone, male: “Eames? The famous Eames? Dom Cobb. Mal—” (he pronounces it ‘Moll’. Eames shudders slightly) “—tells me you’re having a weird reaction?”

Eames swallows his irrational irritation. “Not me. I’m fine. Arthur. He can’t seem to get enough sleep. Has Mal—” (he carefully pronounces it correctly) “—told you anything about the job?”

“Sure.”

“So you know Arthur was rather badly injured, didn’t wake when the timer ran out. I had to go in and find him and shoot him out. He was in there alone, in significant pain, a lot of pain, for … it’s hard to know how much dreamtime. Hours, I think.” 

He doesn’t want to tell this stranger about how distant and angry Arthur is. 

“There was no one there when I found him, obviously. The mark was awake by then, but we kept him sedated while I went back in. So I don’t know what was done to him.” He tries not to sound as though he minds that he doesn’t yet know this. “Arthur was shot and wounded, and then carried through a maze and dumped. He marked the trail for me to find him.”

“He knew you’d come back?”

“Of course,” Eames says crisply. What sort of guy asks that? Even if Arthur wasn’t what he is to Eames, he would have gone back in to get him. Only a monster wouldn’t have.

“Hmm. Never heard of this reaction, precisely. Is Arthur there? I’d like to talk to him.”

“He’s asleep. He was awake for a while, last night. And this morning he seemed alright, got up, went for a walk. We talked about the problem. But then he was too tired. He’s been out for hours again.” He’s really trying to keep the tension out of his voice, but he can hear the strain. He hopes this Cobb, whoever he really is, can’t.

“Okay,” says Cobb, “I’ll do some research. Get Arthur to call when he’s awake. Where are you, anyway?”

“Still in Asia.” Eames doesn’t want to say more than he needs to.

“Okay.” There’s a trace of amusement in Cobb’s voice. He understands that Eames can’t bring himself to be too trusting. “Don’t worry, Eames. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Thanks. I’ll get Arthur to ring when he’s awake.”

“Moll says give Arthur her love.” 

Her love? They seem to have got a whole lot closer while Eames was out doing surveillance. He isn’t jealous, precisely.

“Will do,” he says again, ending the call.

Sudden tropical night has fallen while they’ve been talking. Eames is starving, and Arthur must surely be too. He goes back into the room and tries to wake him. 

“Arthur? Wake up now.” Asleep, Arthur looks like himself. Eames touches his face. Arthur recoils. Something in Eames breaks. Where is Arthur that he doesn’t recognise Eames’ touch? “Arthur!” he says more sharply. “Come on, wake up! Please?” He crouches by the bed, but he doesn’t touch him again. “Arthur? Please?”

Arthur opens his eyes, but he looks blankly at Eames.

“Arthur? It’s me. It’s Eames.”

Arthur scowls as if trying to remember something long forgotten. “Eames?” he says, tentative.

“Yes, Eames. Darling?”

“Darling?”

“Now you’re scaring me, Arthur.”

Arthur sits up. He doesn’t reach for Eames. He’s getting worse, not better. 

“Arthur? We need to get something to eat. You’ve hardly eaten for days. Come on now, get up.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez,” Arthur grouses. He gets off the bed on the far side, away from Eames, and staggers to the bathroom. The shower turns on. Eames goes out onto the veranda and looks at the moon on the water and feels the night breeze blow through his hair. He tries not to panic.

Arthur knew him this morning. Hell, he knew him last night, even if he seemed to have forgotten how they were together. He’s been asleep for hours, not days. It hadn’t seemed as if he was having a nightmare. What the fuck has happened to him?

Arthur comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips. He narrows his eyes at Eames. “Where are my clothes?” he asks, irritation in his tone.

Eames unpacked while Arthur slept the first day, but Arthur knows where his things are. “Top two drawers. Most of the wardrobe.” Arthur doesn’t smile at the feeble joke, just walks across to the chest. The line of his spine as he bends to the drawer is so vulnerable, Eames looks away. He steps back out onto the veranda and closes the door, to give Arthur, this strange Arthur, privacy while he dresses.

The door opens and Arthur comes out. “I’m ready to go out now,” he says, his voice formal, his face serious. He’s wearing a loose linen shirt and pale stone trousers. He looks good, if Eames ignores the drawn pallor of his face. And his angry distance. They walk down the beach to the little barbeque shack Eames found on his own the night before. Arthur wrinkles his nose and asks for a salad. Eames orders him a couple of satay anyway, and he eats them. He hardly says a word. It’s unbearable.

Afterwards he says: “I’m tired. Can I go back to my room?”

“Our room,” Eames corrects him. 

Arthur just shrugs.

“I don’t think you should go back to sleep now though.”

“But I’m tired.”

“You’ve been asleep for hours. I want you to phone Mal. Remember Mal?”

“Should I?”

“For fuck sake, Arthur! Yes! You should remember me, too!”

Arthur shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. But he walks along the beach docilely enough. At their room, Eames fetches his phone and rings Mal.

“ _Oui?_ ” she says, “Eames?”

“Yes,” he says, turning away from Arthur and dropping his voice. “He doesn’t know who I am. He did this morning. And now he doesn’t.”

“Oh, Eames,” says Mal. “Let me speak to him.”

Eames hands Arthur the phone. “It’s Mal. She worked with us on the Macau job. Pretty, dark hair, French. Remember? Mallorie.”

Arthur takes the phone. “Hello?” he says. Eames can hear Mal speaking rapidly. He can’t make out what she’s saying. Arthur listens.

“I’m tired,” he says, a little petulant. “Alright. I suppose.” 

After a pause, Eames can hear Cobb’s voice. “Hello,” says Arthur, the formal note back. “Thank you. I’m just so tired,” he says. He hands the phone back to Eames.

“I thought you said he was just tired?” says Cobb. “Now he’s lost his memory? What are you doing out there?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” says Eames. “He was asleep, I woke him up and now he doesn’t know me. What the hell is going on, do you think?”

“I have no idea. There’s not much I can do from a distance. Can you bring him here?”

He doesn’t want to. He has to.

“Yes. Give me a day or two.” 

“Sure. Come and stay. We’ll figure it out. Do you have a PASIV?”

“Yes.” Cobb must know this.

“I wouldn’t try going under with him until we know what’s happening. Don’t let him try on his own.”

“No. I’ll lock it up.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll ring when I have a flight.” Eames is eager to get off the phone.

Arthur has gone inside. He’s asleep across the bed in his clothes.

“Arthur,” says Eames, his voice breaking.

He takes a spare blanket out of the wardrobe and lies down to sleep on the floor. He lies on the scratchy blanket in the hot dark listening to Arthur’s heavy breathing. He doesn’t sleep.

He gets up as soon as it’s light, but it’s too early to ring for a flight. He sits outside again. The breeze is making the palm fronds rattle. Like bones, Eames thinks.

When he judges an airline office might be open he goes back inside to make a call, books them a flight.

When he finishes, Arthur is awake. “Where do I live?” he says.

“ _We_ don’t really live anywhere.” It’s been a point of contention. “We were in LA for a few months last year. You liked it there. We could go back there if you want.”

Arthur’s frowning at him. “We?”

Eames wants to scream, wake Arthur up somehow. It wouldn’t help though, so he ignores the question. 

“We’ve got a flight to Paris this evening. To go see Mal and Dom. You know Mal, but neither of us knows Dom. He’s supposed to be some kind of researcher, might know what’s happened to you.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, lying back down. “I’ll go back to sleep then.”

Talking to this blank person is so awful, Eames just lets him, too tired himself to make the effort he should. He goes out for a walk, down the beach, to a cafe where he gets breakfast and drinks too much coffee and stares out the window.

The room is empty when he gets back. The bathroom door is closed, but the shower isn’t running.

“Arthur?” he calls. “You in there?” There’s no answer, no sound. He tries the knob. It’s not locked. Arthur isn’t there. He opens the wardrobe. Arthur’s things are gone. 

The sheets are tumbled off the bed. On the mattress is a piece of paper, torn from a notebook.

“YOU SAID GO TO PARIS, SO I HAVE,” it says, in Arthur’s neat block letters. “DON’T FOLLOW ME.” The last part is underlined.

Eames slumps onto the bed. Can he even get himself to Paris if he doesn’t know who is is? Or was he faking that? Why would he? Nothing makes sense anymore.

He grabs a jacket and the PASIV case, leaves a wad of cash on the nightstand to cover the room rental and goes out to hail a taxi to the airport. The Air France flight he booked is, the agent said, the only one to Paris. It’s in five hours. Plenty of time to find Arthur in the airport and reason with him. 

He’ll just sit down next to him at the gate and … what? Plead with him? 

Or not. Sit far away, lurk at the back of the plane? Trail him in Paris? Just to make sure he’s okay. That nothing bad happens to him. Nothing worse than whatever already has happened.

There’s no sign of Arthur near the check-in desks. He goes to the Air France ticket office. The two business class tickets he booked haven’t been picked up, and of course they won’t tell him if Arthur Levine has bought a ticket for himself.

Arthur is not at the gate. 

He calls Mal. She hasn’t heard from him. But he said he was going to Paris, and Arthur is terrifyingly good at anything, so getting himself there alone, even in his weird state, isn’t beyond him. When the flight is finally called, Eames’ gut is still churning with worry.

He rings Mal as soon as he lands.

“He’s here, Eames. With Dom. He doesn’t want to see you. Let him get through this?”

“How does he know he doesn’t want to see me, if he doesn’t even know me?”

“We’ll be in touch. When he’s better.”

He could stalk him. Wait outside Mal’s apartment. Watch him walk down the street, sit at a cafe. 

But can he watch him talking and laughing with others and still be locked out himself? The idea makes him want to scream. And weep.

He hasn’t even left the airport. He scans the departure boards, there’s a flight to Nairobi leaving soon. He buys a ticket.

He dumps his phone before he boards.

And so it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some canon-typical violence. Arthur is hurt, although it happens off-screen. He is affected by this, and there is a scene of rough and not pleasurable sex. No one is coerced, but it is not enjoyable. It is integral to the plot of what comes later.


	5. 2007

Nairobi is a nightmare of traffic and expat wankers, but he likes the country and the climate. Mombasa’s better. 

He finds a little house with cool cement floors and doors that open onto a veranda overhung with bougainvillea (red, not purple). He puts the PASIV away in a cupboard and finds a poker game.

He tries to forget.

He tries not to take the PASIV out of the cupboard. He doesn’t try hard enough.

The case gleams in the sunlight falling through the open doors. He hasn’t opened it since Mal packed it away in Macau. He leaves it on the table, unopened, for a week. Finally, he pops the locks and raises the lid. 

He’s never dreamed alone. 

The Somnacin vials are empty anyway. Thank god. It didn’t seem likely it was the drug that damaged Arthur, but you never know.

First, he needs a chemist. One day, in the heart of the old town, a dark little shop with old-fashioned apothecary bottles of glowing liquids in the window catches his eye. A glance through the door reveals a guy about his own age among more shelves of bottles. 

“How can I help you?” The man’s accent is so English, it’s like being back at school.

“I’m not sure,” says Eames.

“A mixture, a potion?” He has an intriguing smile, as if he’s vastly amused by something private. “Love or loss?”

“What?”

“People here like a potion or two.” He waves his hand to indicate the flasks all around them. “Have you lost someone? Want to draw someone to you?”

It’s so preposterous, Eames laughs, to stop himself saying: ‘Both.’

The man smiles, self-deprecating, and holds out his hand. “I’m Yusuf.”

“Eames.” Yusuf’s hand is warm and dry, soft. “No love potions, thanks.”

Yusuf shrugs and reaches out to stroke a cat walking delicately along a shelf, stepping carefully around the bottles.

“But you do want something?”

He does, but it would be stupid to trust this Yusuf straight away. 

“Would you like a drink? A coffee?” 

“Sure,” says Yusuf. “I can lock up early.” He lifts the cat down from the shelf and reaches for a jacket hung over the back of a chair. “Let’s get a beer,” he says. 

One beer turns into several. Yusuf confesses he strayed from his family’s strictures while studying in England, and feels rather isolated now he’s back home. 

“I could have stayed there. But I’m interested in more, shall we say, arcane research.”

They agree to meet for another drink in a week and Eames goes home and opens the PASIV case again. Soon.

***

Arthur handled details like Somnacin supplies when they worked together. The formula was locked up on his computer. But right at the beginning, it was written in one of his notebooks. Eames has that notebook, had found it in his desk when they packed up the London flat, and kept it out of pure sentiment. He hasn’t looked at it since before Macau, but he carried it in the inner pocket of his jacket then. It’s under his passport in his nightstand drawer now. He slips it into his pocket when he goes to meet Yusuf.

“Could you formulate this?” he asks, holding the book out, opened to the page where Arthur had copied the formula in his neat block capitals. 

Yusuf takes it and studies it in silence. “I could,” he says. “What is it?”

“Rather hard to explain,” says Eames. “Easier to show you, once it’s made.” It might be reckless to trust this virtual stranger, but he needs the drug.

“Alright,” says Yusuf, “I’m intrigued.” He runs his finger down the list of chemicals, hmming to himself. “I’ve got most of this. Just need to get one thing. About two weeks, I imagine.”

Soon. He’ll be dreaming soon.

When he stops by the shop in a couple of weeks, pockets full of just-won cash, Yusuf looks up and says: “I made your potion.”

Eames smiles at the little joke, as he is supposed to.

“Are you going to show me what it’s for?”

“I will, give me a few days?”

“Alright, mate. Want a beer?”

“Sure.” Eames has been working on a dreamspace and he’d rather go home and test it.

One beer turns into a few. Yusuf is the first friend he’s had in a while. He didn’t need friends before. With Arthur.

He’s a bit drunk when he gets home, but his hands are steady as he pours a dose into the PASIV’s reservoir. He sets the timer — 15 minutes — inserts a needle in the crook of his elbow, pushes the button.

———

His flat in London is familiar: the odd, narrow stairs, the huge plants in the window bay, his books in the study. It’s comforting to be back there. 

He walks down the hall. The bedroom door is closed. He tries the knob. Locked. He doesn’t have a key.

He sits in the living room, listening to buses rumble by, police sirens, watching the light falling through the leaves. He picks up the Rothko book from the coffee table and leafs through it. He took Arthur to see the series at Tate Modern; he remembers his awed silence in the room.

It’s noisy outside, but inside the flat it’s too still, the air undisturbed. He’s waiting for Arthur to come up the stairs, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair a little damp.

Then he hears the sound of the door, quick footsteps on the stairs, a footstep on the kitchen tile, the flick of the kettle switch. 

He sits and waits, his head turned to the doorway.

Arthur comes down the hall, a smile breaking over his face as he sees Eames.

“There you are,” he says, and comes over, straddles his lap, leans in to kiss him. His lips, his hands, his nose, are cold. Eames fits his hands round Arthur’s hips and pulls him closer. They kiss for a long time, exploring each other’s mouths, Arthur’s hands on his face, and then he rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder, says into his neck: “I’ve missed you so, darling.”

“I know. I know,” says Arthur, his hand at the back of Eames’ head, fingers pushing through his hair. 

And then they just sit like that, quiet together.

———

Eames face is wet as he wakes. He is sitting on the sofa in his house. It isn’t London and there is no Arthur.

He leans forward and adds another dose to the PASIV, sets the timer — 20 minutes — and pushes the button.

———

The flat is quiet, the light end-of-day dim. There’s a line of light under the bedroom door, but it’s still locked. He walks the other way, to his study. Arthur is sitting at the desk, writing in a notebook.

“Hello, darling.”

Arthur looks over his shoulder, spins the office chair to face Eames, and smiles.

“Hello, Eames.” 

He’s leaning back, his thighs sprawled wide. Eames goes over and drops to his knees, buries his face in Arthur’s lap. The wool of Arthur’s trousers is rough on his cheeks and under his fingers as he slides his hands up his legs. Arthur is trembling. Eames reaches for his belt, but Arthur stops him.

“Not now,” he says. “Not here.”

“Then when? Where?”

“Another time. Another place.” He pushes Eames away and spins the chair back to the desk.

Eames stands up and walks away down the hall. The bedroom door is still locked. He sits on the sofa and waits for the dream to end.

———

His face is wet, and Mombasa is not London.

He takes out the needle, heedless of the blood that oozes up, coils the tubing, shuts the case and puts it back in the cupboard.

He lies on his bed in the hot dark and listens to the night sounds, tears running out of his eyes, soaking into his hair.

***

Yusuf rings. “Was that compound okay? Did it work?”

“It was fine. It worked.”

“Excellent. Now will you show me what it does?”

“In a few days.” He can’t show Yusuf the London flat.

“Alright, mate. Tell me when you’re ready to stop being so mysterious.”

“I will.”

“Well, bye then.” He can hear doubt, a tinge of impatience, in Yusuf’s voice.

“Bye.”

He goes out, loses more than he should. The Macau money won’t last forever.

*

He rings Yusuf. “It’s ready,” he says. “Come over tonight.”

“What the hell is that thing? Are you sick or something? What did I formulate?”

“It’s a Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous device.”

“A what?”

“It’s a machine for sharing dreams. You made the Somnacin, the drug that makes it possible.”

“Share dreams? What are you on about?”

“We hook ourselves up together, and you will enter my dream. A constructed dream. A dreamspace I made up.”

“Why?”

“Well, you can do things in dreams that you can’t do elsewhere.”

Yusuf laughs. “Yeah, sure. But what’s the point?”

“You can find things. Information.” Eames frowns in frustration. “It’s hard to explain. Do you want to see?”

“I’m intrigued, certainly. But two people sharing one intravenous device, that’s risky.”

“Yes, it is. Not very dangerous, but still, there is a risk. I can show you the blood tests I had done last week.”

“And what about me? Aren’t you concerned? This _is_ Africa.”

Eames shrugs. He should be concerned. “Are you clean?”

“I am. But I could just be saying that.”

“You could be. But I don’t think you are.”

“Alright. Show me your results.”

The sheet of paper is lying on the table, Eames hands it to Yusuf and pours a dose into the PASIV. Yusuf scans it and sets it aside. He leans forward and studies the machine.

“Neat,” he says.

Eames has the lines stretched out. “Can you find a vein, or do you want me to?”

“I think I can do it. I’m no expert, though.” He laughs, betraying his nerves. 

Eames hands him a needle and watches while he inserts it. Yusuf winces, but he finds a vein. Eames inserts his own.

“I’m putting five minutes on the timer.”

“What can you show me in five minutes?”

“Dream time is different. Five minutes will be plenty. Just relax.”

Yusuf settles back into the sofa, but he’s frowning. Eames pushes the button.

———

The cricket change room is the same as it was when he was at school, the same as it was when he showed it to Arthur and Black. 

Next to him, Yusuf is looking round, puzzlement and interest warring on his face.

“Where are we?”

“In the cricket change room at my school.”

“Yeah, ours was like this.” He wrinkles his nose. “Even smells like it, sweat and linseed oil.”

“Deep Heat and dirty socks.”

“That too.” Yusuf laughs. He looks over his shoulder. A teenager is sitting on a bench, bouncing a cricket ball on a bat. “Who the hell is that?”

“A projection of my subconscious. Someone I used to know.”

Beyond the windows, a thin cheer can be heard, the hard ball being struck —the sounds of a school cricket match.

“Want to go and watch?”

“Sure,” says Yusuf, and they walk through the doors into the sunshine of an English summer day, gentler than the African sun they’re used to. Yusuf looks around. “Nice school.”

“I suppose.” Eames shrugs. School had been alright. 

They walk around the pitch and sit on a bench under an old oak tree.

“This is all very pleasant,” says Yusuf, his eyes on the players, “but you said you can find things. How does that work?”

“Well, the subject of the dream tends to hide their secrets, if there’s somewhere to put them.”

He knows where his is, and he doesn’t mind Yusuf finding it. It’s the old secret. “Shall we go back?”

Yusuf looks around the change room. “Where would you hide some information? In this locker?”

Eames has deliberately left the door open a crack. Yusuf swings it wide and takes out the folded sheet of paper.

“Oh, I see,” he says, looking at Eames. “Okay.”

Behind him, Eames can see, pinned on a noticeboard, a picture of the boy he loved all that time ago. He smiles.

———

Yusuf rubs his hands across his face and into his curly hair. “That was a trip,” he says.

Eames had thought Arthur was unlikely to show up, but it had been a possibility. He’s glad he didn’t.

“Did you like it?”

“Nice interlude. I still don’t get what the point really is. You could have just told me that, if you’d wanted to.”

“Yes, of course. But it can be used to extract secrets from outsiders.”

“Extract? By force?”

“Not by force. But yes, against their will.”

“What sort of secrets?”

“Well, commercial secrets, infidelity, that sort of thing.”

“So you’re a private eye, in a way?”

“Exactly.”

“How did you …?”

“I didn’t. A scientist did. He sold it to the military. That’s where I learned.”

“Bloody hell. Secret military tech and you have one in your sitting room in a backstreet in Mombasa?”

“Yes,” says Eames, “I do.” He looks at Yusuf. “Are you outraged?”

“No, intrigued. You’re more interesting than I thought you were.”

Eames laughs. “Well, thanks.”

***

He tries to stay out of his London flat, but he can’t help going there sometimes. Arthur is always there. He’s not always very kind. The bedroom is always locked.

***

It turns out that Yusuf is the perfect collaborator. Unconcerned with legality, intrigued by the drugs. And interested in the things Eames wants and Arthur didn’t: better uses for the dreams.

The first time Eames forges in front of him — the tiny blonde he met in the strip club — he is delighted. 

“Does she … go all the way?”

“She’s got all the right parts, if that’s what you mean, but you know it’s still me, don’t you?”

Yusuf laughs. “Well, I don’t mind that,” cutting his eyes sideways at Eames.

“Yeah, I’m not fucking you, in a dream as a woman or as me. Not now, anyway.”

“Alright,” says Yusuf, not put out. “If you ever change your mind though.”

It’s been months, but Eames hasn’t wanted anyone. He’s pretty sure that’s why the bedroom door stays locked, and why Arthur pushes him away in his dreams. Just like he did the last time they were together.

He shouldn’t go there. But he can’t stop himself completely.

When he dumped his phone, he just wanted to make himself disappear. If Arthur had forgotten him, he didn’t want to be known. Especially not in the incestuous, gossipy dreamshare world.

But he does want to do dreamshare again. There’s so much to discover.

Yusuf wants to add dreaming to his “love and loss” potions service. Infidelity is Eames’ least favourite kind of dream detection, but he agrees. The Macau money is running out, and playing is never going to make him rich in Mombasa.

They do a job for the wife of a local politician. She knows the man’s cheating, he’s perfectly open about it, but she’s certain one of his lovers is the daughter of his party leader. Proof will bring him down, and give her the satisfaction of the sort of revenge that will really hurt. She is right, and her revenge is sweet indeed. The job doesn’t make Eames feel as dirty as he thought it would. 

The job leads to others, a rash of cheating husbands and unfaithful wives. Eames longs for trade secrets.

One man asks if Eames can make his wife fall in love with him again. He forges the man and almost succeeds, until he stops trying when she asks if he will give up his teenage lover. They make him pay the full fee, even though they failed, and Eames passes it on to the wife.

He still has Mal’s number, written in the back of Arthur’s old notebook.

One night, after he has visited the London flat and Arthur has been particularly tender with him, he takes the notebook out of his nightstand drawer. She’s probably got a new number by now. He flips to the page and runs his finger over the number. If he doesn’t try, he will never know. He enters the number and waits for the call to connect. 

“ _Oui?_ ” 

“Mal?”

“Eames? Eames!”

“Yes, it’s me. How is—?”

“How is Arthur? He is better. Yes, better. He and Dominic are working together. Such a talented architect!”

The relief is enormous.

“How, better? Does he remember?”

“He knows he is Arthur. He has not lost himself.”

He’s afraid to ask. He has to ask.

“And me? Does he remember me?”

“Oh, Eames, _je suis desolée_ , I’m so sorry. He remembers you, but he doesn’t want to know you.”

Eames swallows the sob that’s rising in his throat. “Did he say that? Did he say why, for god’s sake?”

“He won’t speak about you.”

“But did you, or Dom, or anyone, get to the bottom of what happened in Macau, in Bali? That dream changed him. Something happened to him in that dream. When he was all alone in the maze. Did Dom’s research help at all? How is he better if he won’t talk about that? That’s ridiculous!” He’s pacing round his room, all but shouting into the phone.

“Well,” she says, and she sounds almost embarrassed, “Dom couldn’t find out for certain. Arthur went to a doctor. He got sleeping pills. He stopped dreaming. And then he felt better. And he didn’t want to talk about Macau, so Dom didn’t make him. He’s happy, Eames. He’s happy now. Isn’t that what we want? Isn’t that what you want?”

Of course it is. 

“Of course. Thank you. Goodbye, Mal.” He ends the call before she can reply. 

Of course he wants to know that Arthur isn’t too traumatised to function. That he’s happy. But what sort of help is it to him, to sleep and never to dream? To lock whatever happened in Macau in a vault and never look at it?And how does Mal know he’s himself again, she hardly knew Arthur before. She didn’t know his Arthur. Has Arthur locked that self away? Does _he_ even know the man he was? The man he was with Eames?

***

Doing jobs in Mombasa with Yusuf puts them on the dreamshare radar, and Eames starts to get inquiries from other extractors, people who need his forging skill, the first and best. 

Yusuf won’t go anywhere else, says he can’t close his shop and leave his clients. Eames isn’t sure Yusuf has told him everything about the service he offers. But then Eames hasn’t told Yusuf everything about himself.

He takes a job in Milan: espionage for a designer desperate to outdo his former lover. Clothes are more interesting than car parts, less dirty than infidelity and it’s fun to hang around a European city. He contemplates the _Last Supper._

He’s offered a job in London, but he declines.

There’s one in Copenhagen: duelling chefs, in Berlin it’s an art dealer, in Vladivostok a shipping magnate. Several months slip by and Eames feels as if he’s circling Paris, nearer, then further, pulled inexorably. 

Mal and Dom Cobb are still there — the glamorous Cobbs, the best architects, the subtlest extractors. And their amazing “point man,” Arthur.

Arthur, who can set up a job so well everything is guaranteed to go smoothly; who can find out background information the CIA would kill for. Arthur, icy cool, unflappable, well tailored, tightly buttoned up, slick-haired Arthur. Dreamshare is in awe of the Cobbs, but dreamshare is a little terrified of Arthur.

Eames wonders if his Arthur — the Arthur he was allowed to know, the Arthur who would take him apart so, so slowly; the Arthur who could make him laugh just by raising his eyebrow; the Arthur who would lounge about in boxers and Eames’ t-shirt, his hair falling in his eyes, with a dog-eared thriller — if his Arthur is lost forever. And that thought makes him want to weep.

*

The pull of Paris can’t be resisted forever. He tells himself he’s just going to pass through. Go to the Pompidou. Sit in a cafe. Walk by the Seine. Avoid the Cobbs and their amazing point man. 

That’s what he tells himself. He doesn’t believe it.

He does go to the Pompidou. He rings Mal from a cafe, and meets her by the Seine. He hates that he has to try to get to Arthur through her, that she is closer to Arthur than he is.

He barely gets through the pleasantries before saying: “I think Arthur experienced something more than pain in the Macau dream. I think Broadbent did something else to him. Told him things, tried to convince him of something. Turned him against me somehow.”

“How would he do that? Why?”

“I have always thought dreams could be used for so much more than stealing. That they could be used to help people access things their waking minds won’t let them. Real dreams can do that. And I always thought created dreams could do it more effectively.”

She nods but lets him continue without comment.

“Arthur didn’t want to try it. Said he didn’t want to ‘fuck with anyone’s mind.’ I think Broadbent fucked with his mind. There’s no other explanation. I think every time he slept in Bali, he went back to the dream and in the end he believed what Broadbent told him. About me.”

They’re walking, so he doesn’t have to look at her while he says this. He’s never said it out loud, but as he does so now, he knows it is true.

“But why would Broadbent do that? Even if he knew what we were trying to do, why do that to Arthur?”

“Because he could? Because he wanted to practise before he used it on others? I don’t know. In his line of work, it would be useful. It’s what the military thought dreamshare was for, right at the beginning. We refused to use it for that, Arthur and I. That’s why we quit. And I don’t think it was the first time Arthur had been psychologically tortured in a dream.” 

He sees again, with vivid force, Blue sitting twirling her hair, so nonchalant, while next to her Arthur had looked devastated and broken.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to see if I can undo the damage.”

She stops walking and turns to him, a hand on his arm: “Eames! He’s happy, can’t you let him be happy?”

“How do you know he’s happy? He got ‘better’ by blocking it out. You didn’t know him when he was happy.” His voice breaks and he pulls away from her.

“I am sorry, Eames.” There tears in her lovely eyes. She may not know the Arthur Eames knew and loves, but she loves the man she knows.

“I need to see what that man said to him, and did to to him, that made him not want to know me anymore.”

“And if you can’t undo the damage?”

“At least I’ll know.” 

“Oh, Eames.”

“Will you help me?”

“He doesn’t dream, Eames. He’s afraid to.”

“Can’t I at least try to help him with that? He loves dreaming.”

“He loves designing with us, running jobs smoothly.”

“No! You’re not letting him move on! You’re just using him.”

He walks away from her. Her heels follow, tap-tap-tapping rapidly on the pavement.

“Eames, wait! Stop!” He stops, turns. The breeze is blowing her hair across her face but she ignores it. “I can try to help. Dominic thought Arthur would be better if he didn’t dream. Arthur refused to go there with him. But I will ask him to dream with me. He trusts me, I think.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know!”

Eames doesn’t either. Will Arthur reject him in a dream as well? He’s used to seeing Arthur in his dreams, but he knows that’s not the real Arthur, just his memories of him. And his want. And even in those dreams, Arthur sometimes pushes him away. Not always.

They part then. Eames watches her walking away, holding her hair off her face, her red coat bright in the gloom.

*

Mal calls him the next day. Rain is beating down, he is sitting at the window of his hotel room, looking out over the gleaming rooftops towards the Eiffel Tower.

“He has agreed to go under with me. If he can be in control.”

“Of course he would want to be.”

Eames thinks he knows where Arthur will go.

“Mal, if I enter the dream after you, don’t draw attention, maybe you could get him to talk, about that dream? Then we’d know. Then I’d know. And he wouldn’t have to see me. But I could see him.”

“ _Bien_. I will try that. I want Arthur to be happy. I hope this does not make him sad again.”

“When? When can you do it?”

“When Dominic takes the children to the park tomorrow.”

“Children?”

“Our children. Philippa and James.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

She gives him the address and sets a time. “The door won’t be locked.”

*

Eames’ heart is beating hard as he climbs the stairs to the Cobbs’ apartment. The door is, as Mal promised, not locked. He goes inside quietly and walks down the short hallway to the sitting room. Mal and Arthur are lying on the two sofas, hooked to a PASIV in the middle of the floor. There’re ten minutes left on the timer. He wishes he had time to look at the real, the corporeal Arthur. His hair is severe, and there’s a crease between his eyebrows. Eames longs to reach out and smooth it with his finger, but he doesn’t allow himself the indulgence. He quickly unrolls a third line, fumbling in his haste, and inserts a needle into the crook of his elbow. 

He will have to leave the dream before Arthur wakes and erase all trace of his presence here. 

———

The Italian square is deserted. 

Eames walks up the alley where the fruit stall was, but it is empty. In the square with the trees, he sees them, sitting at the cafe, glasses of Campari soda on the table. Arthur is wearing the white linen shirt he often wore here, his hair untamed. Eames stops and just looks for a minute, but he needs to go close enough to hear what Arthur might be saying, so he walks forward into the square.

Arthur glances up, but seeing only a bland stranger, turns back to Mal.

Eames sits down at a nearby table and opens a newspaper. He wants to look at Arthur more closely, but he can hardly expect him to speak of difficult things under scrutiny. 

Arthur is speaking softly, rapidly.

“... ‘how do you know? Do you even know him? He’s a liar, a dissembler, a forger, a fake.’ He called Eames a fake! And then he said: ‘And what are you? A researcher. You’re boring. You bore him’.” Arthur’s voice breaks a little on this. “‘He can’t live like that, with one person for the rest of his life. With _you_ for the rest of his life. And you know he’s attracted to women as well. I saw him looking at Feng Mian. He wanted her. I would have given her to him. And he would have taken her.’” Arthur falls silent. “I knew that. He told me, that he’s bisexual. I thought he was faithful. I believed he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he _was_ bored with me. I mean, he was right. I _am_ dull.”

“Oh Arthur, _cher_ —”

“No, Mal! He was right. And then he said: ‘I saw him looking at me, that blonde tart. He wanted me. He thought he was being so subtle, but I saw the way he looked. He wanted both of us, he was _gagging_ for it.’ How did he even know she was him? He said: ‘I would have watched that blonde tart with Feng Mian. And he would have _loved_ that. The exhibitionist.’ Ugh, he was leering at me. And he had his hands on me, all over me. It hurt so much, and he wouldn’t left me cover it, and he kept stroking my face, while he was telling me these terrible things, these horrible things, and I kept passing out and then he would hit me, hard, and wake me up and make me listen. ‘You think he’s so hot for you? He could have anyone. _Anyone_. Man or woman. He’s too good for you. Who are you? Just a boring boy. You’re a child, who’ve you ever been with? You bore him. Your mind bores him. Your body bores him’.”

Eames can’t bear it. He wants to leap up, show himself, _himself_ , to Arthur and say “NO! It’s not true. I never wanted anyone else! Once you were there, I never wanted anyone else. I don’t want anyone else now.” But he can’t do that to Arthur. Can’t violate his trust. He came here, somewhere he feels safe, and told this to a friend and Eames can’t show him that he was also telling Eames. 

He folds his newspaper and stands up. It’s time for him to go. He dares to look at Arthur. His face is stained with tears. Eames walks down the alley, back to the square, and goes into the room where he first put on a forge. There’s a gun on the table. He picks it up and shoots himself.

———

There are only a few minutes left on the timer, he stayed longer than he should have. He pulls out the needle, wincing, detaches it, and rolls up the line, placing it back in the case, watching Arthur as he does so. His face is thinner than it was in Bali, and in the dream, and he has a look of such pain, Eames can’t help himself, he runs the back of his fingers lightly across Arthur’s jaw. A fleeting touch. The last time he touched Arthur was on that awful night in Bali, when Arthur left bruises on him that didn’t fade for weeks; that still have not faded.

*

“Oh, Eames … You were right.” His phone ringing startled Eames. He’s sitting in the dark in his hotel room, looking out at the lights of the city, the roofs, the Tower, the river. “What you thought. Broadbent told him such terrible things.”

“Yes. I heard some of it. How is he now?”

“He is sleeping.”

“No! Sleeping was what made it worse. Every time he slept, he woke up worse. After he’d been awake a while it seemed to fade. In Bali, it was always worst when he’d been asleep.” He has never and will never tell anyone the details of that night.

“I couldn’t stop him!” Mal’s voice is sharp. She also loves him, and she heard everything he revealed.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Can you tell me what he said? Did Broadbent say how he knew?”

“How he knew we were stealing from his mind? No. He must have been trained somehow. To resist. To turn his projections against us consciously.”

“And how did he know it was me? Forging?

“He told Arthur he saw the way the … woman looked at him.” She’s editing as she goes of course.

“I heard what he called my forge.”

“He said as soon as you left, everyone in the casino started getting agitated, looking at him, moving closer.”

“I thought so. Broadbent sensed I was going to look for his secrets. Why didn’t he just come after me? Why target Arthur? That didn’t stop me stealing.”

“He didn’t like you stealing from him, but Arthur said he didn’t seem to care about the secret itself that much. And I think he got more from hurting Arthur than he would have from fighting you. More … pleasure.”

“Don’t, Mal.” She’s right, but it’s intolerable to discuss it like this with her. “I have to help him. Help him get past this.” 

“Help him know you again?”

“Help _him_. Help him forget all those awful things Broadbent said about him. All those lies. How could Arthur ever believe he was _boring_?” 

The Arthur he knew wouldn’t believe the lies about how Eames felt, or about himself. The Arthur he knew — sexy, confident Arthur — knew his own worth.

“ _Oui_ ,” she says. “Help our _pauvre_ Arthur.”

He wants to stop talking about Arthur like this. “Please don’t tell Cobb anything?”

“He only wants to help—”

“Arthur won’t want his help. It’ll just make it worse, if Dom knows and Arthur knows he knows. Please?”

“Alright. I will keep Arthur’s secrets.”

“Good. Thank you, Mal.”

“Of course. _Au revoir_ , Eames.”

“Goodbye.”

He stares out into the dark city for a long time. It’s what he has always wanted to use dreams for. To help. If only it wasn’t Arthur, when he doesn’t even know if it _will_ help.

***

The heat of a Mombasa summer is a shock after Paris in the autumn, but Yusuf’s shop is as dim and cool as ever, the cats stalking between his bottles. He looks up when Eames steps in.

“You’ve been gone a while,” he says.

“I have. I went to see a former colleague after the jobs. He needs my help. Not with theft. With the other thing.”

“Planting an idea?”

“Yes. He needs to accept an idea contrary to one he has come to believe.”

“He asked you to do this?”

“Not in so many words.”

“So he doesn’t know what idea you are going to plant?”

“No. And I don’t want to make him believe something he never has. Just to remember something he once knew was true. Something he has forgotten.”

“You’re being bloody mysterious.”

Eames really doesn’t want to explain too many specifics. It’s too personal. Arthur would hate it. What he’s planning to do is enough of a violation, and Arthur’s been violated far too much already.

“Can I ask you to help without knowing too many details? It’s not a job, there’s no payout. It’s something I need to do. For him.” 

“Of course. Yes. What do you need from me?”

“Remember how you once said the drug would have to be different for a dream like that?”

“More subtle.”

“That’s it. I also think the dream has to be … deeper, somehow.”

“Deeper?”

“More profound.” Eames rubs his hand over his face. He’s dead tired. He came straight from the airport. “I don’t know.”

“You’re exhausted, mate. Go home.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Yusuf.”

The cement floors of his little house are cool and the bougainvillea is in full flower.

He doesn’t take the PASIV out of its cupboard. He lies on the bed and lets himself drift. He pictures Arthur here with him, in a loose linen shirt, his hair in his eyes, curling behind his ears, a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat, his hands on Eames’ shoulders; leaning down to kiss him, allowing Eames to pull him closer, allowing Eames’ hands on his hips, thumbs tracing the grooves down to his groin, his hands on Eames’ face, their eyes locked. 

*

“Can you dream within a dream?”

Yusuf’s question, delivered without preamble on the phone a few days later, is baffling.

“What?”

“Can dreamers go to sleep and dream? In the dream itself?”

“Go to sleep, or use a PASIV?”

“Use a PASIV, I suppose.”

“I’ve never seen it done.”

“But do you think it could be?”

“You’d have to dream the PASIV too, and the drug.”

“Yes. But the real Somnacin would have more than one layer. More subtle.” He’s pleased with his own cleverness.

“And you think you could formulate that?”

“I think I have already. I haven’t been sitting on my arse while you’ve been away, you know.”

“But you haven’t tested it?”

“No PASIV.”

“Well, come over and we’ll test it.”

The Somnacin Yusuf pours into the chamber is an unusual colour, greenish, like patinated copper.

“We’ll go down, set up the dream PASIV, and then I’ll watch over you while you go see what it’s like another layer down,” says Yusuf. “My dream, then yours.”

———

Yusuf’s dream is a small house overlooking a sandy beach. The sea outside is a pale blue. The architecture is Arabic. “My grandfather’s house,” he says. 

In a dim bedroom off the veranda, under a slowly turning fan, Eames thinks of the PASIV. He’s studied it carefully in order to be ready for this. Yusuf takes a small bottle out of his pocket and pours a dose into the machine, turns the dial for five minutes. Eames inserts the needle and lies back on the carved bed.

—*—*—

The London flat is quiet, full of late afternoon light and shadows. Eames walks down the hall. He tries the bedroom door, as he always does. It is locked, as it always is. 

He sits on the sofa, watching the light change, listening to the street noises. Waiting for Arthur. Waiting for Arthur. He has always come when Eames has been to the flat before. The clock on the mantel ticks away the minutes, the hours; time runs even slower here, stretches out and out, and still Arthur doesn’t come. 

Two hours have ticked by.

—*—*—

The fan is turning slowly, pushing the hot, damp island air.

“Well?” says Yusuf, standing up from the chair he’s been sitting in, watching over Eames. He takes out the needle

“The dream was fine. No issues that I could determine.”

He doesn’t tell Yusuf he just sat on his sofa waiting and watching the light move. He sits up. “Show me the house?”

Yusuf takes him into the kitchen where a tiny woman in a white sari is cooking. “My grandmother,” he says. She smiles at Eames but doesn’t greet him. 

In a book-lined study an old man is reading. He looks up from his book. “Good afternoon,” he says.

———

“I lost track of time, sorry,” says Yusuf, taking out his line. “So was it really fine?”

“Yes, I went into a dream of mine. I was alone there, and normally I’m not, but I don’t know that it would be a problem. The opposite, actually.” Arthur’s absence probably had more to do with the state of Eames’ mind than the drug anyway.

“So will it work, do you think?”

“I have no idea. I hope so. I have to try.”

Eames is packing away the machine, disposing of the needles in the sharps container.

“Eames, can I ask you why this person doesn’t see a doctor?”

“Because it’s a dream problem. A doctor can’t help. Because he doesn’t even seem to know it is a problem. Because I don’t know what else to do, and I have to do something.”

“Fair enough,” says Yusuf. Eames really likes him for it. He’s intellectually curious, but not nosy.

*

But how to get Arthur into the dream with him? He will have to go to him again.

He rings Mal. “I think I may have a way to help Arthur. He got all those wrong ideas in a dream, a weird dream. So I want to try taking him into a dream, an unusual dream, a dream within a dream, and see if I can plant the idea that he’s not who Broadbent told him he was; that what he thinks, about himself, and about me, about us, is all lies.”

“A dream within a dream?”

“Yes, I know a chemist who can formulate a Somnacin that has two layers. Then you dream a PASIV, and go down another layer—”

“Will that work?”

“It does work, we tested it.” He doesn’t say he hasn’t tested the idea-planting. “But I think I need your help again. I can’t show up and ask Arthur to dream with me. I think he can only see me in the second dream, my dream.”

“We can do as before, perhaps?”

“Yes. When are you not working?”

They agree he will come in three weeks. Cobb will be away on a research trip, thank god. He’s never met the man, but he doesn’t trust him with Arthur.

He closes up his house, wondering if he will come back soon. Will he be alone, or will Arthur be with him? Would he agree to come here? He tries not to picture the future he wants. Not getting it would be even harder than the present.

***

The lights of Paris are sparkling in the Seine as the plane banks to land. Down there is Arthur, thinking he deserves to be alone, that he’s too boring to hold Eames’ attention, that Eames was lying to him, that nothing was true. The lights blur.

He calls Mal from a cafe, arranges to meet so he can give her the special Somnacin.

“He dreams now, you know,” she says. “Just to test designs. But better than before, I think.”

“Maybe what we did before helped him, then.”

“I think so, yes.”

Maybe what he is going to try will work. Maybe he can dare to hope. 

“How will you get him into your dream, if you don’t think he should see you before?”

He and Yusuf have discussed this problem repeatedly. The best they can think of is a variation of Eames’ old “overwhelm him and stick him” trick. He will approach in a forge, drug Arthur and take him under. He wishes there was a better way, one that didn’t involve tricking him. Deceiving Arthur for any reason makes him feel filthy. The only way he can allow himself to do it is in the hope that Arthur regains his sense of self, that he gets back what Broadbent took from him.

Mal will ask Arthur to try out a design they are working on. She will let Eames in and watch over them.

*

He climbs the stairs to the Cobbs’ apartment at the appointed time, his heart pounding in time with his steps. Will he get Arthur back when this is done? Will Arthur get himself back?

“ _Bonjour_ , Eames,” says Mal as she opens the door. “He is in the office.” She leads him down the hallway. In the sitting room, a toddler is playing with a baby on the rug. 

Arthur is sitting in an armchair, his head tipped back, his hands, his beautiful hands, relaxed on the arms. The cannula is in the back of his right hand. 

“He’s just gone down,” says Mal, smiling fondly. 

Eames sits on the floor next to the PASIV case and Mal hands him a line.

“ _Bonne chance!_ ” she says as he lies back.

———

The lobby of the building is deserted. In the centre of the space, suspended in air, is a staircase. Eames can’t help smiling at such an Arthur touch. But where is Arthur? He picks up his PASIV case and goes to look for him. The elevator doesn’t have buttons for the floors, so he presses the UP button to see where it might take him. He watches himself in the mirrored wall as he shifts into character.

He steps out of the lift onto the roof of the building. Night has fallen and all around are the lights of a city. But the roof is deserted.

The lift door is still open and he gets back in and presses the DOWN button.

The door slides open into a bar, dim, with hanging lights casting intimate pools of light into booths. Behind the bar, instead of hundreds of bottles, there is just one. The barman pours him a Scotch and he looks around for Arthur, because surely he is here.

He has his back to the bar, but Eames can see his face in the mirrored wall as he approaches the booth where Arthur is sitting. He stops at the table and Arthur looks up at him, his expression neutral.

“May I join you?”

Arthur looks around at all the empty booths, because they are the only people here, aside from the barman. But then he looks back at not-Eames and nods.

He sets the PASIV case down (Arthur glances at it) and slides into the booth. “Pleasant place,” he says.

“I like it,” says Arthur. “It’s quiet.” He’s not looking at not-Eames with any particular interest, but seems content to have his company. 

“Need a bit of quiet, do you?”

Arthur smiles, wry. “Work is noisy.”

“Construction?”

“Design and project management. My colleagues bring their kids to work.” Arthur smiles. “It can get a bit loud.”

Clever Arthur, to have built himself a quiet refuge.

“I can drink to a quiet place,” says Eames, raising his glass in a toast. It’s good Scotch.

But drinking good Scotch in a quiet bar is not why he came. He brings an animated group into the bar, and Arthur turns to look over his shoulder at them. He tips the sedative into Arthur’s drink. Arthur turns back and picks up his glass, sips his Scotch. He wrinkles his nose at the slightly off flavour, but his eyelids droop before he can remark on it.

The barman doesn’t react, occupied as he is with Eames’ projections. 

Eames moves Arthur into the corner of the booth and lifts his PASIV case onto the table. Working quickly, he opens it and unspools two lines. The chamber is already full, so he inserts a cannula into the back of Arthur’s hand and inserts his own. He sets the timer for ten minutes and presses the button.

—*—*—

The London flat is evening-quiet.

They walk together down the hall, past the closed bedroom door, into the sitting room. Eames sits on the sofa, and Arthur on the other one, under the ficus tree. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

Arthur looks around. “It’s how I remember it,” he says, “but why am I here? I don’t live here anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I had to leave.”

“Why did you have to leave?”

“I went away.” He’s looking down at his hands.

“We went away to work. We had jobs all over the world. Together. I went with you.”

Arthur still hasn’t really looked at Eames. “Yes, we were busy,” he says. “Everyone wanted Eames.”

“Everyone wanted Arthur and Eames. We were the best, the pioneers. We were unstoppable.”

“Eames was dazzling, he could have anyone. Man or woman.”

Eames has to swallow his rage at Broadbent for all his lies. He gets up and crosses the room to Arthur, sits down and takes his hand. Arthur still won’t look at him, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Look at me, darling.”

Arthur looks up, serious.

“I didn’t want anyone. I wanted you.”

“But why? I’m boring.”

“Not to me. Never to me.”

“But I am. I never change. Eames changes.”

“Arthur!” Eames’ voice is sharp. “Look at me! I’m right here. _I_ don’t change. I play a role, just for work, just to get the job done. But it’s always me, inside. You know that.”

Arthur’s brow creases, as if he’s trying to decipher a foreign language.

“Eames can be anyone, he’s a forger.”

He not sure what he thought would happen here with Arthur, if he thought they’d be like they always were together. But he didn’t expect Arthur not to recognise him, or acknowledge him. He doesn’t know what to do, to get Arthur to see him.

“And he’s so gorgeous,” says Arthur, as if to himself. “I bore him. My body bores him.”

“No! It does not! How can you say that, darling?” His voice breaks as he says it.

He stands up, tugs Arthur up with him, leads him down the hall to the bathroom, which has a large mirror. He positions Arthur in front of it and stands behind him. 

“Look at yourself, Arthur. Do you see what I see?”

Arthur grimaces slightly. “I’m thin. Too thin. Childish. Boyish. When I’m wearing a suit, I don’t look so young. My ears stick out.”

“Can I tell you what I see?”

Arthur frowns, but he doesn’t demur.

“I see a man, a strong man. A man who can put on a suit and comb his hair just so and go out into the world and do wonders. Who can find out anything, can make people — clients, colleagues, me — do as he asks, as he tells them. And I also see a man who takes my breath away when he wakes up with his hair all over the place, when he walks down the hall in one of my old t-shirts.” 

He has kept his hands to himself so far, but now he puts a hand on Arthur’s waist, and waits to see what he will do. Arthur swallows, but doesn’t step away. He slips his hand under the shirt, pushing it up, revealing Arthur’s taut stomach.

“The man I see takes care of himself, but it isn’t vanity. He makes his body strong so he can use it. He runs because it gives him time to think. I love your body, Arthur. And I love what you do with it.” 

Arthur shivers as Eames dances his fingers lightly across his skin. “I love your body, but it’s your mind, your heart, I really love.” He ends with his hand over Arthur’s heart.

Arthur isn’t looking at his own body anymore, he’s looking into Eames’ eyes in the mirror. He nods, and turns around to face him. Eames waits to see what he will do. He brings his hands up, to Eames’ shoulders, and leans towards him and kisses him.

It’s like a cool stream in a desert, like a breeze on an airless day, like a light switched on in a dark room.

“Eames,” he says at last, “I’ve been away. I’m home now.” And he takes Eames’ hand and leads him down the hall to the bedroom. The door is not locked.

Their bedroom is just how it always was, the light falling in soft pools from the lamps onto the bed. 

Arthur sits down, pulling Eames down next to him. He turns to look at Eames, and he’s biting his lip.

“I want you,” he says, very quiet.

“I’m here. God, darling, I’ve missed you so.”

“But how can you forgive me? For what I did to you?”

“In Bali?”

“Yes.” Arthur drops his eyes. “I can’t forgive myself.”

“I have never felt lonelier than I did that night,” says Eames, “but I know it wasn’t you, not really. Broadbent warped you, he took away your sense of yourself. And I think I understand what you were doing?”

“What do you think I was doing?”

“Maybe you were saying you weren’t the inexperienced child he said you were?”

Arthur nods, but he keeps his head down. “He made me feel so … powerless. I was so angry. Every time I slept, I was back there. Then, when I’d been awake a while, if I could stay awake, the dream faded a bit, you know how they do.” He looks up at Eames, then back down at where he’s rubbing the side of his thumb along the denim on his thigh, a nervous distraction.

“And that night, you came in, and I woke up and it was all so vivid, and you came to bed but you didn’t want me. You didn’t want me, and I just … needed to prove to myself … something—”

“I didn’t not want you, darling. I didn’t know how to reach you.”

Arthur glances up at Eames, frowning, and back down. “It was awful. I hated myself. Didn’t you hate me?” His voice is almost too soft to hear. 

“I hated how you did it, that night. And I didn’t love you in that moment.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Glad?”

“I’m glad you hated me then.”

“I didn’t hate _you_. I didn’t love you right in that moment.” Eames tips Arthur’s chin up with a finger. “Look at me, Arthur. I hated what had come between us. I didn’t understand it then.”

“Then?”

“Later, not so long ago, I asked Mal to help me try to understand. You remember when you took her to Italy, when you told her?” Arthur nods, frowning. “I was there, too. I heard some of what you told her, some of what that man told you. How he hurt you.”

“You spied on me?”

“I had to know. I had to understand. I knew he must have done something to you, hurt you, told you lies about … about us. About me. Lies about _yourself_. I just needed to understand.”

“So you _spied_ on me?” Arthur’s voice trembles. He drops Eames’ hand and stands up. “How could you? I trusted you. I _thought_ I could trust you!”

“You—”

“No!” Arthur has turned away. “I wanted to trust you,” he says, his voice breaking. 

He slams the door as he leaves.

Eames can’t follow him. He sits frozen and waits for the dream to end.

—*—*—

Arthur is not in the bar. Eames takes the lift to the roof and stands at the edge. He can’t bring himself to do it, so he waits again.

———

Arthur is not in the room when Eames wakes.

“He woke up before the time and left without saying anything,” says Mal. “What happened? What did you do?”

“I fucked it up.”

He can’t stay and discuss it with her. He takes out the needle. “Thank you for your help,” he says, formally. “Please tell Arthur I’m sorry.”

***

There’s no reason to stay in Paris, hoping for Arthur. 

He goes back to Mombasa, back to petty jobs, with Yusuf or with other teams.

He doesn’t want to know what Arthur is doing, where he is, who he’s with, but dreamshare is too small a world. 

He can’t not know that Mal apparently lost her grip on what was real, let go of her life. He can’t not know that Arthur, loyal, steadfast Arthur, stands by Cobb, following him in his mad running. He can’t not know, even though he wishes he did not know.


	6. 2010

“It’s perfectly possible. Just bloody difficult.”

_If you don’t let your emotions get in the way_ , he doesn’t say. _If you don’t fuck it up_ , he doesn’t tell Cobb.

And so it begins. Again.


	7. After. Arthur

After the Fischer job, that crazy, fucked-up job — which worked, it seems, despite everything — Arthur can’t stop thinking about Eames. 

Older, wiser Eames. Better, even, than before. Disguising himself as a louche expat, pretending to be in it for the money, or the thrill, or something. Putting up with Dom and all his crazy bullshit. Holding the whole thing together.

He saw him waiting in the airport, but he was still hesitant to go to him. To walk up to him and say: “Can I come with you? Will you have me back, now?”

He hesitated, even though he thought during the job, that Eames did —maybe — want him. Want him like Arthur wants Eames.

So he waits, alone in LA. Dom doesn’t need him anymore, he has his life back. Part of it, anyway. He has his kids back. He doesn’t need Arthur anymore.

He waits. He turns down offers of jobs. The story of what they did is leaking out. Dreamshare is too small. But he can’t move on. Not yet.

He waits until he can’t wait anymore. Eames is in Mombasa again. He books a ticket, just like he booked one for Dom all those months ago.

The heat hits him like a sticky blanket as he walks out of the little airport. He gives the taxi driver the address.

The house is small, a bougainvillea dropping its papery red flowers on the veranda. The doors are closed against the heat, the windows shuttered. He knocks. 

And waits, his heart banging. The door rattles as the bolt is slid back. It swings open. Eames is barefoot, his hair tousled. He looks younger than the man in the vintage shirts in Paris. He looks like the man he was in Macau, in Bali.

“Arthur?”

“Eames.”

“You’re here.”

He can’t think what to say, now he’s here, now Eames is standing in front of him, so he just nods.

Eames steps back. “Come in,” he says.

The interior is dim, cool. A fan turns lazily overhead. 

“Why have you come?” says Eames.

“Because I didn’t, at the airport.”

“In LA? After the Fischer job?”

“Yes.”

Eames’ eyes widen. “So you saw me waiting?”

“I thought maybe you were waiting for me. But that job was so crazy. Maybe you didn’t want to go over it.”

Eames smiles, wry, but he doesn’t say anything about that. Instead he says: “Sit down, won’t you?”

Arthur looks around the room. Much smaller and plainer than the London flat. Only one couch.

He sits at one end. Eames is still standing in the middle of the space, as if he can’t decide about something.

“Do you want—?”

“I want to explain.”

“Explain?”

“Yes. I need to explain.”

“Alright,” Eames says. He sounds puzzled, but he sits at the other end of the couch, turned towards Arthur.

“You _were_ waiting for me?”

Eames smiles again, indulgent, as if Arthur is being terribly slow. “I was.”

“Okay. So it wasn’t just me?”

“Not just you.”

“Okay.” Arthur does feel as if he’s being terribly slow. Partly it’s travel weariness. And partly it’s being here with Eames. Who looks like he did, all those years ago. He is older, wiser. But still —oh god — still _Eames_. 

“I thought so. After … you know. After—”

“After I flirted with you for weeks?”

Arthur is startled into a laugh. “Yeah.”

“It was the only way I could bear to be near you, deflecting,” says Eames, softer. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. But I was confused. After what happened.”

“In Macau?”

“Yes.” His voice sticks in his throat. But he has come all this way to try to explain. He has thought about it. He has to do it. He clears his throat. “In Bali.”

Eames’ face is completely serious now. 

Arthur looks down at his hands. “What I did to you in Bali.”

“That wasn’t you.”

“No, Eames. I was confused. But I did it. I did that. I did that to you.” He risks a look at Eames. His eyes are serious; he nods.

“I didn’t understand then,” Arthur says, looking down again, escaping Eames’ serious eyes. “I didn’t know what was happening. I was so confused. And afterwards, I was so ashamed. So ashamed. So I ran away, and hid with Mal, and Dom.”

“And they put you through the mill!” says Eames.

“Yes. But they were good for me. In the beginning. In Paris.”

“What happened after Paris?”

Arthur came here to explain his own behaviour, not pick over the Cobbs’ tragedy with Eames, who’s still so scornful of Dom. But he has to explain, and it’s all part of the whole story.

“After we moved back to the States, I saw less of them. We didn’t always work together. And they didn’t exactly confide in me, Eames.”

“Poor Mal,” says Eames. “I blame myself a bit.”

“Why?” He looks at Eames, wanting to understand.

“I gave her the idea.”

“What idea?” 

“A dream within a dream. Inception. It never worked, before, though. Before Fischer. I’d given up the idea, after … And then Cobb came along, wanting to try it again, and I couldn’t resist. Thank god it actually worked.”

“Thank god it worked? You _made_ it work, Eames! I wanted it to work. We had talked about it, Dom and Mal and me. But you made it work. When the rest of us were so distracted by Dom’s shit.”

“I did want it to work. It didn’t before.”

“Are you sure it didn’t?” There, he’s said it.

“Sure?”

“Eames. When you did it to me. To help me.”

“You realised? But I cocked it up. I deserved how you reacted. I really wanted it work. I wanted you to understand that everything Broadbent told you was a lie. And you—”

“It worked.” Eames is frowning at him, as if he doesn’t understand what Arthur is saying. “Eames, it worked.”

“You believed? How? God, Arthur, when?”

“Not right away. I _was_ angry with you, in the dream.” 

“And you ran, hell, you jumped off a building to get away from me—”

“Yes. But afterwards. It was like a weight lifted or something. I felt, I don’t know — lighter. I felt lighter than I had for ages. For a long time. And I started to really think about that dream. What you told me. What you showed me.”

“About yourself? Did you think about that? That what he made you believe, that it wasn’t true?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so, in Paris. You were magnificent. And in the dream, in that hotel … when you—”

“I heard you. What you were saying. What you were really saying.” 

Eames smiles, remembering, and Arthur does too, but he needs to finish this, needs to tell Eames all of it.

“And once I didn’t have to believe all the terrible things he made me think, I could think about you and me, and remember everything else.”

“Everything else?”

“How we were together.”

“But you never said anything. It’s been years, Arthur! Why didn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t you?”

“I told you. I was so ashamed of … Bali. Of what I did in Bali. I was certain you wouldn’t want me after that. How could you?”

“Because I loved you. I knew you weren’t yourself. But I had to wait for you. I tried to undo what he did, and then when it didn’t work, I had to wait. It was wrong, trying to force you. I wanted you back, but you had to want it too. So I waited.

“But Eames, you can’t just ignore Bali. We can’t. That’s why I couldn’t come to find you. I was sure you wouldn’t want me back.”

They both fall silent then, trying to hear what the other is saying, just looking at each other.

Then Eames says: “I _do_ want you back.”

“I—”

Eames reaches out, reaches for Arthur’s hand. And Arthur gives it to him.

He brushes his thumb over the spot on Arthur’s wrist where they insert the Somnacin line. As if he wants to remind Arthur of that moment in the hotel, in the dream. He smiles. “Shhh,” he whispers.

And they sit quietly, listening to each other breathe. Arthur can hear his heart crashing.

“I’ll never forgive myself for Bali,” he says, again.

“But I do. I _have_. When I heard what he did to you, I knew it wasn’t you.”

“When you heard—”

“When I spied on you. I just wanted to understand.”

“I know that now. And I’d never said anything. To anyone. I hadn’t really even thought about it, properly. I couldn’t let myself. I was just glad when I stopped going there in dreams. And I was too scared to go into created dreams. And then Mal made me. It was a relief, to tell someone.”

“I know.” Eames grips his hand tighter. He’s missed the touch of Eames’ hands. The real touch.

After a long moment passes, Eames moves towards him on the couch. Carefully. He’s waiting for permission and it’s like all those years ago, in London.

“Come on,” says Arthur.

And Eames smiles, and leans in, and kisses him.

Arthur has missed the touch of Eames’ mouth. He closes his eyes, gives himself up to the sensation of being kissed by Eames, of kissing Eames. He shifts closer, so he can feel the heat of Eames’ body against his. It’s almost overwhelming. He opens his eyes. He can see the fine details of Eames, the lines around his eyes. They’re older and sadder than they were, both of them, but maybe they can fit back together. He brings his hand up to Eames’ face, feels the roughness of the stubble under his fingertips. Eames breaks their kiss, turns his face into Arthur’s hand, and that feels so trusting, so intimate. He lays his head on Eames’ shoulder and breathes in the scent of him, of salt and sweat. “I missed you,” he whispers.

“Yes,” says Eames. “Stay.”

And so it begins. Again.


End file.
